Love Thy Enemy
by AmicableAlien
Summary: AU A word can change everything. Kestrel and Bow struggle to keep the Manth homeland alive, even as their world moves ever closer to the beating, deadly heart of the Mastery where the lines between old loyalties and new trusts become increasingly blurred.
1. Love Thy Enemy

I do not own "Wind on Fire" or have any claim on it.

* * *

**Love Thy Enemy **

* * *

_I used to rule the world_  
_Seas would rise when I gave the word_  
_Now in the morning I sleep alone_  
_Sweep the streets I used to own_

_I used to roll the dice_  
_Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes_  
_Listen as the crowd would sing_  
_"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"_

_One minute I held the key_  
_Next the walls were closed on me_  
_And I discovered that my castles stand_  
_Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand_

_I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing_  
_Roman Cavalry choirs are singing_  
_Be my mirror, my sword and shield_  
_My missionaries in a foreign field_

_For some reason I can't explain_  
_Once you go there was never_  
_Never an honest word_  
_And that was when I ruled the world_

- "Viva La Vida (Or Death and All His Friends)", Coldplay

* * *

_Destiny awaits alike for the free man as well as him enslaved by another's might_

-Aeschylus


	2. Chapter One: The Wedding

I do not own the Wind on Fire Trilogy.

* * *

**_The Wedding_**

* * *

Marius Semeon Ortiz was getting married.

The sand of the manaxa ring stuck against his white leather boots, helped by the little spots of blood the slaves had failed to sweep away. From behind he could hear the low murmur of his friends. They shuffled backwards and forwards, anxious for the best spot in the wedding party. Each was eager for the Master to see their loyalty to him.

Ortiz felt a deep surge of pride. They squabbled and fought like chickens in a pen for a few measly breadcrumbs of the Master's affection and approval. But he… He was honoured above them all. He was beloved in the Master's eyes.

He was the Master's son. And now, like a loyal son, he was waiting to marry the Johdila of Gang.

He took one pace forwards.

On the opposite side, Meeron Graff, Keeper of the Master's Household slipped his hand under the Johdila's veiled elbow. His face was blank, carefully hiding any unauthorised emotion. With a firm tug, he guided the Radiance of the East one step across the sand towards her fiancé.

A surge of sound. The Master swept his players into the next movement. Voices and violins swirled together in perfect time. Johjan guards, stationed at the edge of the elaborate manaxa, lifted their heads in surprise as they heard the echoing strains of hundreds of voices. Guided by assistant conductors, linked to the Master by a chain of mirrors and light signals, the entire city of the Mastery was in song. A city-wide symphony. A nation united in melody.

Music swung up once more, the obbligato soaring into the domed roof like a bird. Ortiz obediently followed the paces that had been drilled into him over the past few days. The music reminded him slightly of the exotic flame-like notes of the tantaraza. The feeling of flying through the air. The pair of dark eyes glowing into his own. Madness. Utter madness: moonshine and chaos…

But still, hope. The pin-prick of a new life was still open to him. He still hoped. He despised himself for hoping.

He looked over at her, barely shifting his head from its original position. That dark hair, those flame-like eyes. _I'll never love her like you!_ He called to the dark-eyed lady hanging back in the shadows of the Johdila's servants. _Never, never, never._

The third step.

He focussed on his bride. Bitterness swarmed up his tongue. Why should it be her? Why was _she_ the princess? His mind cried out, not recognising the classic plea of those who marry against their will. But it couldn't be against his will, could it? It was for the Master. He was the Master's loyal son…

Another shuffle forward. They were now within touching distance of each other. The Master smiled down at him. He was pacing perfectly, each step in time with the rhythm of the deep bass drums, pounding gently through the song of the flutes and violins. Then, as he gushed forward with the final cadenza, toppling, intoxicated into the genius of his own creation; he was suddenly jerked back by a shattering discordant note. Instantly, his eyes lost their dreamy brilliance. They sharpened. Darkened. Striding back to the edge of the balcony, he intensified all his powers of attention. No body in the Great Hall was missed out. He dragged his bow across the strings. A vibrato of notes shattered crazily, drawing a startled look from Spalian. The servant glanced up from the shadows, like a dog that has heard his master curse.

The Master ignored him. Leaning over the railing, his dancing fingers barely pausing across the violin's fingerboard, he stared down at the bridegroom.

Ortiz felt the Master's will flood through him like a river of ice. Terrified, he glanced up. In that moment, he became little more than a puppet. 'Ortiz', the man he was, all his wants and desires, were mercilessly shoved aside. He felt like he was on fire – a cold fire that burned and numbed him from the inside out. Then the fire was gone.

And so was he.

The obedient shell that was Ortiz took his final step.

"With these five steps, I stand before you as your husband. Do you receive me as my wife?"

The silence, the suspension between movements, the intermezzo stretched into seconds. It was like the soft drawl of a bow pulled full length across a cello's strings. It felt like it would never end. It hung on, a never changing note of uncertainty. The fate of the world sang on it.

No one could see the tears dribbling down the Johdila's soft, rose-dust cheek.

Sisi took one last look at Bowman. Everything was in that look. All her hopes and dreams and childish terrors.

But he couldn't see them.

"Yes."

* * *

The banquet hall was full of voices. The murmur of conversation wove in between the soft cellos and violas like the lyrics of a song. Occasionally, someone laughed. A bright sound, full of life. It dragged smiles from the other people surrounding the giver. Soon everyone was smiling.

No one laughed at the top table.

Zohon could barely contain his fury as he paced up and down behind the Johanna's chair. His thoughts swung from his men to the servant girl to the man sitting next to his own Sisi. No, not a man. Fine lips drew back in a sneer as his eyes swept over the young heir to the Mastery. No, this was a _boy_. A mere puppy who had dared to steal his bride from under Zohon's nose. This was insupportable. The servant girl. What's-her-name… Mess? Jess? She must have helped the boy. Zohon's eyes narrowed into slits as he considered this thought. Suddenly, the fleeting idea became more and more believable. It mushroomed in his mind, like a balloon filling with hot air. She must have double-crossed him. There could be no other explanation for it. She had double-crossed him and persuaded the Johdila to accept. Maybe she had been a spy. In the pay of the Mastery. She had betrayed Gang. She had betrayed _him_. The Hammer of Gang flexed his thumbs unconsciously, imagining the servant girl's scrawny traitor's neck between his hands, the life slowly being squeezed out of her…

But perhaps there was still a chance. Zohon stiffened into stillness. Brown eyes stared unseeingly at the wall as ideas slowly, very slowly, began trickling into his head. He had his men. At last count there were three thousand of them, fully armed and fit for duty. Each one as honed as a sharpened battle-axe. How much damage could they do against an city of civilians?

A small greedy smile curled around Zohon's lips. _A lot_. Blood would run the streets, stain the pavements. A silent coup, attacking the Mastery while it lay open and defenceless in celebration of the wedding. And afterwards? After he had taken the city, killed the whelp of the Mastery and offered the city to the Johanna… Then Sisi would be there and come into the protection of the Hammer of Gang with a smiling heart.

"Sire…"

The Johanna snorted in surprise, earning a reproving look from his wife. "Eh? What is it, Zohon?"

"The men, sire. I would like to reassess their positions, if you give me leave to excuse myself."

"What? Nonsense, Zohon. The men are fine. Sit down below Barzan and be quiet."

The Commander stood firm behind his king's chair. His vicious silver hammer twitched between his fingers but apart from the tightness of his lips, the Johanna saw nothing. "With respect, sire, I would prefer to see that my men are properly placed first." He bowed lower, so low he could smell the musty scent of dust and age the emanated from the royal robes. His fastidious nose wrinkled slightly in distaste. "For security purposes, Majesty." The gold braid of his tunic itched his neck and it was with difficulty that he modulated his voice. When _he_ would rule Gang… When _he_ would be the Zohonna, Lord of a Million Souls…

The older man seemed to start. Saturated with the delicious sights and smells before him, he had forgotten that he had three thousand armed men to dispatch. "Oh. Yes. Well, deal with it then."

"Of course, Sire- "

"Come, come, Lord Johanna! You're not sending your men off in the middle of the feast?" Zohon rose up, his eyes promising swift redemption to the spoke in his wheel of power. Reflexively, his fingers prickled for the hilt of his sword and he half-reached across his chest and stomach to grasp the bronze handle. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the bridegroom start to his feet.

The large man dressed in flowing red robes raised a single eyebrow at the Commander's impulsive gesture. He was a giant of a man, with a girth the size of a tree-trunk. Gold mail covered his shoulders, spilling down in interlinked waves from his head. The gold cast a gentle haze over the bushy white hair, softening the rough texture. His grey eyes swept over Zohon and the Commander felt a shudder pass through him. That instant he felt as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn child. Those grey eyes knew everything about him. They could read into his soul. They could control his soul. The thought terrified him.

But then the piercing look was gone. The Master's gaze raked over the provincial Johanna and his dumpy Johdi. He smiled. "My dear Johanna."

The fleshy Emperor lumbered to his feet. Compared to the Master, he seemed slumped and awkward, clutching at the hems of his dignity. "Lord… eh…"

A trickle of ice entered into the vibrant man's smile. "My people know me as 'Master'." He said genially. "But after today, we are relatives, aren't we?" He stretched out his hands in an expansive, jolly gesture.

The Johanna stared at him, his great mouth hanging open slightly at the other man's presumptions. His wife dug an elbow into his ribs.

"Stand up straight, Foofy."

"Yes, m'dear." The Johanna agreed meekly. He bowed his head to the Master. The crown of Gang wobbled slightly. "This wedding is indeed a joyous event for Gang, eh… Lord… Master." He settled on the last word weakly, his eyes fixed on the Master's quelling smile like a rabbit staring at a crocodile.

"And this is your Commander?" The Master's attention skipped away from the royal couple to rest once more on Zohon.

The Hammer of Gang bowed, gritting his teeth.

"Yes, eh… Master. This is Zohon, the Hammer of Gang. Commander of our Johjan guards." The Johanna couldn't keep the note of pride out of his voice at the mention of this elite force of men. He was like a child with a particularly fascinating toy, showing off in front of other children. "Please excuse him for a moment or two. He was just about to… what was it again, Zohon?"

"To reassess the positions of our guards, sire."

"Yes, that was it. Master, I was wondering…"

"You're leaving?"

The Master's hard growl cut through the Johanna's mumbling, like a cold knife through butter. Mesmerising grey eyes fixed onto Zohon's. "Johanna, I must protest. This is a wedding. Commander Zohon should be here, enjoying himself."

"With deepest respects, Master, the Johjan guards are a very large force. No doubt the Johanna would be more comfortable if they were dispersed in a …suitable fashion for the duration of the wedding feast."

"Eh... Yes…" The man caught between a rock and a hard place mumbled; getting smaller and smaller with each exchange. "Zohon does have a point." The Commander gave a small tight smile

The Master nodded. "You're perfectly right, Johanna." He agreed seriously. Zohon gave him a brief, goggle-eyed stare. "And as such, there was a separate feast set aside for the guards. After all, we can't have such fine men going hungry now, can we?" He turned his attention away from a glowering Zohon. Grey eyes levelled intently down at the Johanna of Gang. The Master focussed his powers of control on the fat king, shuffling about in his ornate gold robes.

The Johanna was aware of nothing for the first few seconds. Then, like river water flowing over his body, he felt a sweeping chill wash over him. In that instant, he became like his son-in-law had been: lifeless and obedient.

"No, Master."

"But, sire!" Zohon jumped up, consternation written all over his face. "The men, they…"

"Oh, for heaven's sake Zohon!" The Johdi stepped into the fray. "You heard the Johanna. Now, step down there beside Barzan and let's have no more nonsense." She threw a wavering smile at the Master. "Sit down now, Foofy." She whispered, tugging gently on her husband's sleeve.

"Yes, indeed, m'dear." The Johanna replied automatically. The royal couple gave the Master a distracted nod, like a pair of the chickens they worshipped. Gently the two royal parties separated.

The heat of the Master's presence warmed Ortiz like a fire at the great man came closer to his heir. The young Commander kept his eyes fixed on his plate, his head bowed submissively. It was only when the large, almost meaty hand slid over his shoulder in approval that he dared to look up.

"Well, Marius?"

"Well, Master." Ortiz agreed quietly.

A slow smile crossed the older man's face. The grip on the tawny haired man's shoulder tightened perceptibly. "Come to me in a few days, Marius. I wish to hear your thoughts."

"A few days, Master? Would not tomorrow…?"

A bellow of laughter erupted from the man in front of him. Ortiz felt an answering smile being tugged out of him at the jolly sound. "Tomorrow? No, no Marius. Consider the next few days your honeymoon, my boy! Relax, enjoy yourself." Another absent pat on his shoulder, like one would placate a spoiled child. "I'll have plenty use for you soon."

Ortiz felt pride swell up in him, forcefully ignoring the sinking, dragging sensation of the word _honeymoon_. "I'm ready, Master."

Another bellow of laughter. "Still need to grow a little, Marius. Still need to grow." The red-cloaked Master removed his hand from the younger man's shoulder. With his characteristic flurry of quick strides, he moved off from the Hall, shouting for his violin once more. Ortiz watched him leave; not resuming his seat until the great oaken doors had shut behind the powerful, white-bearded figure. He felt shaken, just slightly, the way he always felt after a meeting with the Master. The power of the man! His presence! Someday, he hoped to be like that. Someday, he would be like that. He would have that power…

An unwanted memory slid over him. The chilling helplessness of losing his soul, the terror of being completely at another man's mercy. When the Master had taken his mind. Just before his vows. What had he been thinking of then? He couldn't remember. All he could remember was the shock of ice-cold pain, the numbing blankness. But more than that, the underlying carelessness of the movement. It was not done gently this time. There was no rush of adoration at the end to extinguish the pain and anguish his mind had suffered in that brief moment of ice-cold vulnerability. Not like before. It had just been a task to the Master.

_He doesn't care about me_.

The tiny voice shocked the tawny Commander. He backed away from it, like it was an animal, crazed with pain. Not care for him? The Master?_ Impossible!_ He shouted back. The Master loved him. He was his son, his beloved son, chosen above all others. His fingers closed around something knobbly and cold. It was his goblet, filled to the brim with sweet wine from the southern hills. With relief, he lifted the silver cup to his lips and drank deep. The sharp tang of the wine spilled down his throat, washing away his doubts. This was his wedding day. He was the heir to the Mastery, husband to the Johdila of Gang and the Master loved him.

With a bright smile on his lips, he turned to the lady beside him. Infinitesimally, the grin faded as his eyes fell on the veiled and silent Princess.

She wasn't even looking at him. The fine food on her plate was untouched, her hands folded neatly in her white silk lap. She looked like a statue. _The Unwilling Bride_, carved in perfect white marble.

Her stillness unnerved him. He was used to flirtation and had conducted several discreet affairs in the recent years. But how did one flirt with a silent woman?

_How did one flirt with a woman one doesn't love?_

He licked his lips. There was dish of ripe figs in front of him; the rich purple fruit lolling around in the silver bowl like rotund gluttons. He seized them, cupping his hand under the engraved edges. The metal felt clammy in his palm and the dish was surprisingly heavy as he lifted it towards her.

"Johdila?"

Her veiled head moved. Lifted towards him. He raised the bowl a fraction higher. "Would you care for a fig, Johdila?" His words were heavy and formal on his tongue and his mouth was dry. He swallowed. Waiting for her reaction.

Slowly, she shook her head. The sheer veil shuddered with the movement, sending rippling shadows across the white silk. Her husband watched it; mesmerised with the half-seen images the movement had given him. Was that a curve of her cheek? Was that arcing shadow the outline of a delicate nose, pert and pretty? And the dark smudges, barely seen but still there. Were they her eyelashes, fluttering modestly close by her skin? "No." Her voice was sweet and slightly lost. Then, "Thank you." she said, as if it were an afterthought.

He nodded, drawing back once more. Silence became their common ground. He wondered if every meal would be like this. He wondered if he would be able to endure it.

A loud burst of laughter startled him. The Johanna was looking at them, tipsy and completely recovered from his momentary encounter with the Master. Meeting Ortiz's eyes, he chuckled once more and shook his head. "No need to be so formal, m'boy! You're married now, you know!"

Ortiz blinked in surprise as the realities of his situation were shoved onto him once more. Cautiously, the husband and wife glanced at each other; unsure as to the reaction they should display at this hearty statement. Slowly, like a man approaching a serpent, the Commander stretched out his hand until it was resting in the space between their bodies. A halfway compromise.

Her white hands remained firmly in her lap.

"But the ceremony is very _cold_, isn't it?" The loud voice of the Johdi brayed from her husband's right hand side. "In Gang, they at least have a kiss at the end. The five steps," She counted off each stage of the marriage procedures on her large, bejewelled fingers. "The vow. And then the kiss. It's so much more romantic, don't you agree, Foofy?"

"Quite right, m'dear."

Ortiz could feel his cheeks beginning to burn. Besides him, the Johdila ducked her head in deep embarrassment. Or at least, Ortiz assumed it was embarrassment. He couldn't tell through all those layers of gauze. Her fingers began to pluck at her skirt, bunching it up into handfuls of shimmering cloth. It was starting to crease, he noticed.

Forcing a smile onto his face, he lifted his glass of wine in a silent toast to his parents-in-law. They smiled back at him in return, broad expressions of approval spreading across each stout face. The Johanna toasted him and drank deep. Ortiz raised his glass to his lips, preparing to copy his father-in-law's gesture.

A flicker of green cloth across the hall caught in the corner of his eyes. Turning his head quickly, he looked up and found himself staring directing into the intense dark-eyed glare of his wife's servant girl. His heart lurched, sending a cleansing wave of shock crashing over him. _Her_.

He could spend the rest of the night just looking into those eyes. They were dark brown, so dark as to be almost black. One would almost think they were black too, until they flashed, making the brown tints sparkle and glow. She poured her soul into her eyes, he thought. He wondered what colour they would go when she smiled…

Her eyes narrowed at him, anger darkening them, until they were so dark he couldn't tell were her pupil began or ended. Her gaze shifted from him to the woman next to him. It softened slightly as the young woman in the green dress watched his bride. An irrational spurt of envy flared up in his heart. Would she ever look at him like that? Would she ever smile at him like that?

Someday, she would. Someday, she had to.

He cleared his throat gently. It was a useless gesture, really. She could never have heard him across the raucous noise of the Great Hall. There were people laughing, people talking, people flirting. People making so much noise, she would never be able to hear his soft cough. Never look at him once more.

He was wrong.

Her eyes snapped back to him, like a pair of firecrackers, sparking with anger and rage. His heart soared. She _had_ heard him! He wondered if he should smile at her. He wanted to. He wanted to smile at her, see the surprise in her eyes.

He wondered if she would blush.

Something brushed over his hand. He turned back, the goblet still poised just below his lips.

His wife was siting beside him. Her head was low, the gauze veil hanging down in a straight line and obscuring the dips and plains of her face. But her hand was beside his. Her smallest finger rested close by his. The warmth of her white skin scorched across his hand, sending heat rushing to his cheeks. Was it guilt or anger? He didn't know.

But she was his wife. She deserved some loyalty on her wedding day.

He propelled a small smile onto his face for her. He couldn't tell if she was smiling in return. He hoped she wasn't. Awkwardly, with short, hesitant movements, he patted her hand. After the second tap, his hand fell back. The token sign of affection was finished.

When he looked up again, the dark-eyed girl was gone.

Marius Semeon Ortiz lifted his goblet to his lips and drank deep.

* * *

Kestrel Hath stood in the shadows of the Great Hall, half-concealed underneath sumptuous green velvet hangings. A cool breeze tickled her cheeks from the opened window. Slipping further under the lavender-scented velvet, she moved closer to the window. The night breeze was soothing to her, relaxing the jumbled mesh of thoughts and troubles that had plagued her for the entire day. She slumped against the wooden window post, ignoring the bruising pain of the pinching carved wood.

Below her, the city of the Mastery stretched out like a sparkling shawl of black silk, lights shining like diamond chips across the High Domain and the Lower City. The slave quarters, squatting by the hem of the shawl, were covered in darkness. The young Manth woman looked down on the home of her enemy and shook her head helplessly.

_How did it happen?_ She berated herself tiredly. _How could it happen?_ The plan had been so perfect. Zohon's obsession with Sisi was driven onto the brink of action. The Johjan guards were primed for battle. The power of the Mastery was balanced in the hands of Fate. And she had been sure, so absolutely sure that Fate was on her side.

Instead, Fate had turned her back on the Manth people. Everything had been dealt in favour of the Mastery. Kestrel's weapons had been blunted in her hands. Zohon had failed to act. The Johjan guards were now well on their way to becoming riotously drunk in the plainer feast hall, just off to the side. And, because of them, her people were still slaves.

And that murderer was still breathing. Life surged through her as she remembered how he stared at her, his arrogant eyes scanning her like an uninteresting piece of furniture. Her fists clenched into fists with hatred. She longed with every fibre of her being that he was in front of her now. She wanted to punch him: to ram her fist into his haughty face, to hear the bone crack under her fingers and see the blood, _his_ blood, seep down his face as he howled in pain. To see those deep hazel eyes stare into her own, with the same intensity she had seen while they had danced in the tantaraza…

Kess blinked in surprise. Cautiously, she reached up and patted her cheeks gently. Were they hot? What? Was she…Was she _blushing_? _No!_ The dark-haired young woman shook her head viciously, furious at herself for such a… a girlish reaction to her enemy. It was ridiculous, stupid and _wrong_, she told herself passionately. For her people to live, that man had to die. He and the giant man that everyone called the Master. That would be their punishment. That would be her justice.

Deep shaking breaths of night air calmed her. With the quiet, barely there footsteps of a proper servant, she moved out from her hiding space. The hangings brushed across her face like a spiders-web and she shuddered instinctively. Rubbing her hands across her face, she emerged out of the shadows and into the bright opulence of the dining hall.

The murderer was still sitting at the top table beside Sisi. Each was studiously avoiding any contact, even avoiding looking at each other. A prickle of guilt nagged at Kestrel at Sisi's quiet unhappiness. She had promised her that she didn't have to do this. She had promised her friend that she would take care of everything. And now, everything was wrong.

A cloud of staccato notes rained over the company, drawing the dark-eyed girl's eyes higher. Pacing along the upper tier, tireless and energetic even now, the Master urged his exhausted musicians on and on into further musical rhapsodies. His gold mail head covering had been discarded during the day. His deep red cloak was thrown back from his shoulders and his arm pumped up and down, guiding the bow up and down the strings. Kess's eyes narrowed in hatred at him.

_I will kill you. _She swore softly. _I hate you and I will kill you._

The pacing cracked to a halt. Piercing grey eyes swung down along the hall, ignoring his dancing fingers. The Master frowned slightly as he found the strain of discontent, spoiling his joyous atmosphere of sound.

A terrorising feeling of numbness oozed over Kestrel's body like a second skin. She was locked into place. She couldn't move. Couldn't look away. Those wide-set grey eyes held her in his spell. For that second, she was his puppet, his toy. Her throat tightened in fear. Air was forced into her lungs desperately with shallow breaths that never seemed to reach deep enough.

Then the Master looked away and turned back to his loyal orchestra. She was released.

Kestrel gripped her throat, relief driving through her with every pulse of her throat. What had that man done to her? What type of power had he? She felt something warm and wet tickle at the corner of her eye. It slid down her cheek, leaving a damp trail along her skin. Angrily she dashed her fist across her cheek and glared at the errant tear. Suddenly, she felt completely, utterly and scarily alone.

_Oh, Bo!_ She sobbed in her mind. _Oh, Bo, Bo, Bowman! What are we going to do? What can we do?_

* * *

Professor Fortz was dictating his memoirs to Hanno Hath.

It had become one of their shared tasks of a day. About an hour or two before Hanno had to go home to his wife and family, he would sit down (always the same table), pen in hand and inkwell close by his elbow and the Professor would stand at his usual starting point (always by the bookshelves of marine biology) and stride off, firing out words and phrases like a machine gun. He always paced while dictating. He claimed that it kept his thoughts in good regular order.

"…By examining the various inscriptions detailed on the walls of the lower catacombs of our glorious city…" He reached the shelves for geographical habitats and spun on his heel, lifting his foot, ready to continue pacing. The foot never touched the floor. "Great Stars, what was _that_?"

Hanno looked up too, startled by the sudden shift in the tempo of the music. Far from the cheery, dance-like trot that had swelled over the city for hours, the melody had changed time now. It was softer, almost dreamy. The string instruments were very much in the fore, the cellos, the violas, the deep gravel of the double bass. It made the middle-aged Manth man think of night time, of night-scented stock just opening, of his wife's smile. Happy memories were dredged up – memories he had forgotten, or perhaps had become buried under the mundane minutiae of daily life. Shaking his head, pen and notes ignored, Hanno marvelled at the power of the Master's music.

Fortz, bulldozing through the evocative strains of the harmony like a rock, stumped over to the window and harrumphed in triumph. "Ah! Thought so!"

"Professor?"

"Bride's gone to get ready for her husband. Praise the Stars! There'll be peace at last." He leaned over the edge of the window and squinted down at the street. "Amazing how they kept it up so long." He threw back over his shoulder to Hanno.

"Are the Johdila's servants going with her?" Hanno asked carefully, filling the inkwell from the red clay jug standing on an opposite table. The black liquid sloshed against the corners of the tiny beaker and Hanno held his breath.

"Great Stars, no, man!" Fortz scoffed. "Can't see the servants in the street! In with the bride of course. These provincials are so particular about things like that… Oh." Hanno froze. "No… Wait. Yes!"

"Professor?"

"There's one leaving with the caravan. Can't see her really. Looks skinny." Fortz disclaimed interest in the Johdila's skinny servant girl with a sniff. "Probably doesn't get enough to eat. I hear thery're terribly miserly in Gang."

Hanno drew back his seat, the wooden legs of the chair screeching slightly against the floor. Settling his thin body into the uncomfortable chair, he inked his quill thoroughly, shaking off the excess liquid so as to avoid any unsightly splotches on his work. "May they be happy together." He murmured softly, echoing the old Manth blessing on a newly-wed couple.

"Eh? What? What was that?" Fortz glanced around, his small beady eyes snapping fiercely. "What did you say?"

Hanno did his best to cover an involuntary yawn. "Nothing, Professor."

"Nonsense!" The squat little Professor waved his disclaimer away impatiently. "No one who reads and writes Old Manth every has nothing to say."

"Yes, Professor." Hanno agreed quietly. He raised his quill, ready to continue with the dictation. Another yawn of exhaustion bubbling at his lips.

"You!" Fortz barked, as if he was only just then looking at Hanno properly. "You're tired. Tired scholars are no use to me. Go home. Get some sleep. Back here again at six. _On time_, mind!"

Hanno nodded, his eyes drooping slightly with fatigue. Ink-stained fingers began gathering up his sheaves of paper, automatically sorting them into piles of used and unused sheets. He lifted them up into his arms, like he was carrying a child and plodded over to the depository of the library. Heaving open one of the rusty drawers, he set them down neatly into the wooden enclave. Then he locked the huge receptacle once more.

At the door, the dark haired man turned back, his shoulders aching. Fortz was still standing at the window, staring down into the street. His stocky figure was illuminated against the glow from the street lights, casting an monstrously large shadow along the cleared floor behind him. From the storey below and the open window, Hanno could hear the shouts of some escaped revellers and the softening chords of the Master's great, day-long symphony.

Wearily, the Manth man shook his head and closed the door. "May they be happy." He said softly once more. The darkness around him seemed to embrace his words and swallow them up. As he mechanically put one foot in front of the other, the mantra echoed and tapped in his head.

_May they be happy_.


	3. Chapter 2: The Wedding Night

_**The Wedding Night**_

* * *

Ortiz stood stiffly as his manservant Abelino fussed over him, adjusting the set of a collar here, the fall of his robe there. The young Hajin was a particular as a cat when it came to his master's attire and Ortiz frequently just let him choose his clothes. It was easier than putting up with his servant's silent sighs and reproachful looks when he wore an outfit that didn't meet with Abelino's high standards. Tonight was no different.

Bowman waited quietly in the far corner of the room. His arms hung uselessly at his side and for once, he didn't look at the young Commander. He just stared at the rich, carpeted floor, tracing the red-gold swirls and spirals with his eyes.

Finally, Ortiz waved the servant off with a tired, "You can go now, Abelino."

"But Master, the sleeve…"

Ortiz rubbed his eyes, longing to snap but forcing himself to remain civil. "Just leave, Abelino."

The wiry brunette opened his mouth again, ready to continue his protests about the impropriety of his Lord meeting his bride with a badly set sleeve. But then he caught a glimpse of something in the other man's face that made him hesitate and close his mouth. With a low bow, he crept out of the room, past the great bed with its curtains and draperies of dark red velvet, and through the far door.

"Bowman?"

"Yes?"

"Do you…Why aren't you looking at me?" The dark-haired Manth lifted his head at the question, a frown marring his forehead. There had been a note in the older man's voice that had spoken of… of loneliness, of sadness, almost. It surprised him that this warmongering Commander could feel like that. Even more that he had enough courage to show it.

Ortiz didn't feel brave. Tugging at the collar of his dressing gown, he flicked up it until it stood stiffly, like a shield around the back of his neck. It was an instinctive gesture, one he'd used since childhood whenever he felt uncomfortable or upset. He glanced back at his truth-teller and turned. Tanned hands, callused from the sword, spread out like a magician flaunting his successful trick. Bowman raised his eyebrows. "My Lord?"

"So you see me, Bowman. I'm a married man. Married!" Ortiz shook his head. Convulsively, his hands went to the upright collar once more. The dark, blood red piece of starched silk was tugged firmly. "I never thought I'd be married." He admitted quietly.

The dark-eyed young man hesitated. Unbidden, another memory stole into his mind. A beautiful young woman…what was her name again? Sisi? That was it. Sisi. She'd been a servant with the Johdila, like Kess. And so absurd, like Kess could never be. A small smile touched his lips before he could call it back. She'd been so confident of those ridiculous beliefs of hers. That he would… He blinked and blushed. He could feel heat blistering his cheeks once more and was glad that Ortiz was too preoccupied with his own problems to notice.

But what was it she'd said? _"I don't want to be alone." _

Bowman lifted his head. "No one gets what they want."

"What?"

"I said, nobody ever gets what they want."

"This marriage is what the Master wants." The young heir to the Mastery was testing his truth teller now. Anything to keep his mind off what he would be obliged to do in very few minutes time. "Are you saying that he will never achieve what he desires? A man with his vision?"

Bowman replied with the fearlessness of not being taking seriously and knowing it. "You didn't have to go through with it."

Ortiz shook his head, a little sadly. "You still don't understand, do you?" He asked, mild surprise colouring his words. "About the Master's love."

"What about it?" _What love_? Bowman was tempted to ask, but didn't.

"You have parents, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I never knew my parents." The tawny-haired lord mused, his curiosity caught for a moment. "The Master has been mother and father to me throughout my entire life. Do you ever find, Bowman, that…" He paused, pondering his next words. "That… one would do many… a great many things for ones parents because by doing so it pleases them?"

"And that is how you are?" Bowman's own curiosity flared into life at the momentary insight into his master.

Hazel eyes turned back to him. The sheet of tightly inscribed parchment dropped from Ortiz's fingers as he thought about his truth-teller's question. "Is that me? Yes… I would like to think that. I would like to believe that that person was me."

"Then you will never be happy."

"Ah." A small smile touched Ortiz's lips. Again, he turned his back on Bowman, bending over the cedar-wood desk that stood beside the large, open windows. "But you said that no man ever gets what he wants."

"But every man should have a chance to try."

"And what-"

A soft rap sounded against the connecting door between the two bedrooms. It was a gentle knock, with a faintly apologetic air around it, like an excusing cough. But it reverberated around the room, like the thud of a war-drum.

Ortiz straightened up like an old man. Slowly. Painfully. Hazel eyes looked unseeingly at the wooden panelling above his desk, as the parchment dropped once more onto the surface of the table. For a moment, he seemed turned to stone.

Then, slowly, he came back to life. First he blinked. His hard fists relaxed into open palms, peaceful and reassuring. His shoulders straightened, then, muscle by muscle they relaxed into un-threatening slants. His clenched eyebrows loosened until his forehead was free of the deep lines that had crossed it. The commander caught sight of his servant staring at him in astonishment and tried to summon up a smile. Bowman tried not to wince. Ortiz looked more tired than ever.

"Why…?"

"Why?" Again the wearied look in Ortiz's eyes. "The Johdila is probably a virgin." Bowman couldn't stop the second blush that attacked him. Ortiz didn't seem to notice the Manth man's sensitivity. "Her wedding night should be remembered well. Not because her husband wore a frown the whole time."

"Wearing a smile doesn't make it any easier for her."

_Or for me_. Ortiz waved his hand abruptly, as if trying to banish the disloyal thoughts from his mind. "There's a room prepared for you, if you wish it. Abelino will show you to it…"

"No." The word blurted out before Bowman could stop himself. He backtracked hastily when the young Commander threw him a curious look. "No… sir. Thank you."

"You want to be with your family." Ortiz nodded. "Of course. I'm - … Well, never mind."

Bowman nodded and turned away towards the far door, the one that Abelino had exited through only a few minutes before. He lifted a hand to turn the door latch and stopped. His fingers froze, suspended in the air. With stiff, unschooled movements, he turned and bowed. It was not a low bow, full of courtliness and false sincerity. It was no servile bob of the head either but a sharp inclination of the shoulders, giving Ortiz what he had never received from his truth-teller. Respect. Respect and understanding. For that split second of movement and action, they weren't master and servant, conqueror and truth-teller, but just two men, faced with a harsh world. For that tiny fraction of time, the size of a grain of sand, they were equals.

Bowman almost dared to smile.

The door was open. Golden light was spilling into room from the lamps outside. Another knock came from the inner door, louder now and more insistent.

The Johdila was ready to meet her husband.

Bowman slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him with a soft _click_.

* * *

The Johdila Sirharasi of Gang stood on the threshold of her new life and stared.

The room was so _dark_. Dark, cherry-wood panelling lined the walls, offset by the mixture of hardwood floors and deep-red rugs and carpets. There were no paintings along the walls: only dark red walls. The only thing that could come even close to a wall decoration was a large square tapestry hanging along the far wall. Made up of a medley of multicoloured strands, it showed a simple scene of a mother and son, sitting together in a green garden. The mother was sitting back; something bright wrapped around her left hand. The other hand was tugging gently at something… But the threads were dark with age and Sisi couldn't make out the elusive object in the dim light of the room.

The boy – he must be her son – was kneeling before the woman, his head tilted up adoringly so he could see her face. With a shock, like a bucket of cold water being thrown at her, the Johdila realised that the child had tawny hair, curling with childhood. Just like her husband.

Her _husband_. Gracious, how _alien _it sounded.

And this was his bedroom.

It was such a contrast to her own room of light, frothy fabrics. Lemons, light pinks, golden floors and white, white pillows. She assumed his pillows were white too but right now they were covered in a dark red blanket, edged in red silk. The curtains were the same shade as the edging, hanging sombrely straight from their rail above the windows.

He was beside the window, bending over the large desk of cedar-wood. With a gentle tilt of her lovely head, the Johdila watched him. _Looking at him can't hurt._

He rested on one closed fist; his head bent low over a piece of parchment clutched in his other hand. The rich red robe covered his shoulders, falling down to the middle of his calves. Below it, he wore dark, loose trousers. His feet were bare. They drew Sisi's attention immediately. She'd never seen a man without his boots. Lunki had always tried to hustle her away from the areas where the Johjan guards trained when they were at home in Obagang. Even during the caravan, when the men trained on the side of the road, they wore tight, black boots to protect their feet from the sharp stones and thorns of the ground. _His_ feet were broader than hers were. The heel was scuffed, with the vague up and down texture to it that suggested fading blister scars. The skin was tanned and his toes dug spasmodically into the deep carpet pile with every sentence that passed under his eyes.

_What did one called an arranged husband?_ The Johdila wondered briefly. She had now been in this room over a minute and the heir of the Mastery hadn't even noticed she was in here with him. Sixty seconds was long time when you can't think of what to say or what to think. Eventually, growing sick of the protracted silence, she cleared her throat.

With reluctance, like a dying man letting go of the threads of his life, her husband straightened up. His head turned first, twisting around slowly to see who had interrupted his silence. Then his shoulders, turning in line with the rest of his body. The silk robe flared out with the movement, swinging out and falling back. When he was facing her completely, he blinked then bowed. "My lady."

Sisi stared. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Through the red cloth, she could see the caramel-brown of his skin, the hard, slim lines of his waist, his bunched muscles. There was a thin smattering of hair wiring across his upper torso and going down, in a small v into the rise of his waistband. Her stomach lurched slightly. The tanned skin had brought Zohon to mind: his arrogant, shallow smile, his unreasoning cruelty. She remembered when she had been twelve years old, in Obagang. She'd come into cellar, playing hide-and-seek with herself, and Zohon had been there, knife in hand, calmly beheading every rat that squealed in fear in the wire cage opposite him.

She had been sick then. She felt the familiar surge of nausea now, confronted with her husband. Quickly, she averted her gaze.

Ortiz could feel his cheek heat up at the Johdila's show of shyness. Glancing down, he saw that his robe was wide open, exposing his chest to view. The heat building every second, he wrapped the red cloth around himself and tied the knot tightly. "I… uh…" He cleared his throat. "I apologise for my disarray, my lady." He stated formally.

Sisi bowed her head politely in return. How else could she answer him? What would be the best thing to say… under the circumstances? To apologise equally? To make light of it, joking that they'd see a lot more of each other before the night was done? She winced at the last thought. She didn't even want to _think_ about what they would be doing in this room tonight. She didn't even want to think about being _married_.

In the end she said nothing.

Ortiz rubbed his neck uncomfortably. "So…" He began hesitantly. "We're married."

For what was the first time, he looked – really _looked_ – at the woman bound to him for all eternity. Or at least for the rest of his life.

Soft brown curls, the colour of scorched and polished ash, were pined back loosely into a simple, bridal style. A few curls had been let loose in the front to frame the lovely face of the Johdila of Gang, falling down by the soft but firm curve of her jaw-line. She wore no cap or veil. Instead the soft candlelight glowed onto the crown of her head, picking out strands of molten gold and black in equal profusion. Typical in Gang brides, she was dressed in white: a virginal, pure white, so clear that it seemed almost transparent but thick enough to give the Johdila security in modesty. The neckline clung rigidly to the first curves of her neck, not leaving a scrap of her shoulders or collarbone uncovered.

Sisi flinched in surprise as she felt two warm fingers touch the base of her chin. Instinctively, she glanced up through her eyelashes, ready to step back if he came too close. Bright hazel eyes looked down at her, curiosity waking up into their tired depths. Instantly, the fingers pressed into her skin, urging her to lift her head.

Ortiz drew in a breath of admiration. It was an automatic reaction. Since a child he had been surrounded with beauty on all sides – the beautiful women of the High Domain, the exquisite paintings that hung in his home, the glory of magnificent architecture and masonry. But this woman… His wife…

Gently, he pulled one brown curl out of its net and rubbed it between his fingers. It felt like silks and satins, soft and shimmeringly smooth. _Too smooth_, a voice whispered somewhere. But he ignored it. Shoved it down, like all the other doubts that had ever surfaced at inopportune moments.

"Lovely." He said softly, watching the gold wind around his thumb. "You are very lovely, my lady."

Sisi never hated her own beauty so much as at that moment.

There must have been something in her eyes, some emotion she hadn't managed to hide beneath the doll like exterior because he moved away, retreating to the tiny table set up in the corner of the room, by the connecting door. Over the delicate lace table cover, a hand-blown jug of fine glass was filled with wine, ready to be poured into the waiting glasses. The jug was stylised, like many utensils in the High Domain. The swans inspired this particular example. The glass body was feathered and etched intricately to represent the plumage o the white birds. The handle arched gracefully upwards, flowing into the beak-shaped spout like a swan's long neck. The symbolism was clear. The swan, the sign of devotion, of ever lasting love. The sight of it depressed Ortiz even more. But still, he forced the courtier's smile onto his face. His bride would not see him frown. Not tonight.

He turned back to Sisi, unaware that she had already seen the angry, helpless expression cross his face that night. Unaware that his deception was useless. His hand dropped down over the handgrip. "Some wine?"

Sisi nodded. One pale, pampered hand stretched out expectantly. _Ever a princess_… Ortiz thought, a flash of amused disbelief crossing his mind. She still expected people to wait on her hand and foot. He wondered if she had ever poured even so much as a glass of water for herself in all her life.

Courteously, he pressed the filled glass into her hand. Taking his own, he made as if to throw it back his throat in his usual habit but abruptly, he stopped. Wide, almond-shaped grey eyes were gazing at him in expectation. The Johdila – no, that wasn't right. _Lady Ortiz_ (he winced briefly at how strange it sounded) was waiting for him. But waiting for what? He lifted his glass higher, silently urging her on to drink. When she didn't, he stared at her, perplexed. Was there something wrong with the wine? Surely Abelino wouldn't have served him corked wine?

"My lady?"

"My lord."

"Is something wrong?"

Sisi met his gaze calmly, inwardly marvelling at how cool she felt. "The toast, my lord." She replied clearly.

Ortiz resisted the urge to blink like a complete fool. "The toast." He repeated cautiously.

Sisi forced herself to give the winning smile that had so often confused her father's courtiers. "In Gang, we always give a toast to celebrate the new marriage." She supplied helpfully. "It is a common custom." She didn't know why she added in the last piece. Perhaps it was sheer vindictiveness against the man who had helped trap her in this unenviable situation.

Ortiz swallowed. "Ah. Of course. The toast." He lifted his glass. "To our marriage." He drank. The wine was sour in his mouth.

"To our marriage." Sisi echoed softly, copying his action.

The tawny haired commander rested the empty glass between his hands, avoiding his wife's eyes. The toast had forced his reasons for being with her tonight forcibly on him, his duties and responsibilities. He wondered if her mother had prepared her for this. He supposed she must have: Didn't all mothers do this for their daughters, as fathers did for their sons? "My lady…" No, that didn't sound right. But what was her name? He didn't know. Something ridiculous, he remembered dimly. Si… Sihan… "Siharasi." Sisi looked up at him in shock. Mentally, Ortiz cursed his attempt at informality. "My lady…" He repeated, retreating once more into the security of formal politeness. "About our… married life."

The Princess's eyes widened and a deep blush rushed to her cheeks. Ortiz rubbed his thumb along his palm, even more unsettled now at this display of maidenly modesty. But he still forged ahead, determined to get this over with. "Of course we will be expected to… uh… produce children." _Produce. Like a baker with his bread. Great, just great. _"But I will try… I hope… I mean…" He stuttered slightly, delving more and more into discomfort at the shocked modesty. "I'll try not to inconvenience you too much, my lady." He muttered finally. Like a schoolboy with his hand stuck in the sweet jar and caught red handed. He hoped to the stars that she had enough brains to understand what he meant. The Gang royalty had never been truly famed for great intelligence.

"I understand, my lord." Her voice was low and Ortiz felt a spurt of relief. She wasn't stupid. Perhaps he might even gain an easier marriage than he had envisioned. "Thank you for… for your…" The words trailed off into silence.

The husband and wife stood together and nothing linked them. They were like two one-man islands, always drifting away from each other.

Ortiz glanced back over his shoulder, longing to return to the proposals he was preparing for the Master's Foreign Council. Because of his marriage, their entire foreign policy could change. They could do so much. Expand into Gerat to the north-east. The great water-cities of Nims, Poines and Haran would fall under the Master's sword. _His_ sword.

Once he got through tonight.

Hazel eyes returned to his bride. Awkwardly, his hand lifted to her, as if leading her out into the dance. It was battle-scarred, she saw. Tiny white scars rimmed the square edges of his palm. Along the inside of his thumb, she caught the glimpse of a burn scar. She wondered if he had received it in destroying Kess's city.

"My lady?"

She lifted her eyes to his. He raised his hand higher. His gaze was steady now. He had made up his mind and would carry through with his duty. And he would smile.

"Shall we?"

Doll-like, the Johdila Sirharasi – not Sisi – placed her hand in her husband's broad palm. It rested there like the hand of statue.

Together, they walked towards the bed.


	4. Chapter 3: The First Step

_**The First Step**_

* * *

Kestrel Hath woke with a start.

For a moment she stared around the luxurious caravan of the Johdila of Gang, not quite believing that this wasn't another bad dream. She'd been plagued with them all night: terrifying spectres of probability and wild imagination. In her dreams, she had seen Aramanth burn again, had seen her family trapped in the monkey wagons, the same wagons that had claimed the life of Maslo Inch. They had been screaming for her, begging her to save them. And all the while, her enemy, that murderer, Ortiz, stood there and laughed and laughed before reaching for her too…

She shuddered again. Inside her sleeping robe, hung the heavy weight of the Wind Singer's voice. The silver was warmed by her skin and it was comforting. She clutched it through the cloth, her fingers tracing the curves and bumps of the metal carefully.

Instinctively, she glanced towards the curtained window of the caravan. It was a reflexive gesture, a human movement, seeking out warmth and heat after terror. The early rising sun was pouring in through the thin gauze, sending a dim square of yellow light onto the floor of the caravan. It was dawn. Perhaps an hour or so after that. Kess wasn't sure, not without a clock to check by. Her stomach rumbled deeply, reminding her that whatever time it was, she was hungry and hadn't eaten since the early banquet, yesterday evening. And even then it had only been a few morsels she'd been able to pluck from passing trays as they wound on their way towards the crowds of well-dressed wedding guests. Servants in the Mastery, it seemed, didn't need to eat and weren't expected to be hungry like everyone else.

The dark-haired young woman sighed deeply and rolled over on her pallet once more. Maybe she'd catch a few more hours of sleep before the time came to decide what to do with the rest of her life. And, gods, she was tired…

_Bang-bang-bang!_

The sudden noise sent an electric shock of energy coursing through Kess's veins, like lightning. For a moment, she lay stiff in her bed, praying softly to every deity that she knew of that the knock wasn't for her. The hammering blows against the caravan door sent a sick feeling of familiarity trickling down to her stomach. It had been like that the day that Aramanth had burned. Silence, peace then… then…

_Bang-bang-bang!_

"Open up!"

The Manth woman rolled out of her blankets and pushed her self upwards until she was kneeling on all fours on the wicker floor of the caravan. With silent, tense movements, she pushed herself up into a standing position. Her nightgown flapped around her legs in the gentle breeze that wafted in under the door. She could feel it stirring through her hair, barely shifting the dark brown strands but still there. Turning towards the window, bare feet padded to the right hand side of the caravan, pausing once she reached the windowsill. The gauzy curtain was hard to capture, blowing as it was in the early morning draught. Abandoning the lower hems of the material, pale fingers clutched the side of the curtain. In one swift movement, Kess pulled back in the simple sheet of muslin.

The sunlight glared into her eyes fiercely. Automatically, she squinted. It was later than she had thought, perhaps more around nine or ten o'clock in the morning. The white light glowed against the dusty panels of the other royal caravans, picking out the gilding and green paint that was part of Gang tradition. From somewhere, she thought she could smell the sizzling, mouth-watering scent of roasting meat.

Shadowing her eyes, she squinted down at the interrupter of her precious sleep. "What do you want?"

The man drew himself up self-importantly. He was tiny, more like a monkey than a grown man and looked only around twelve years old. Dressed painstakingly neatly in stiffly starched red and black robes, he cleared his throat and linked his hand behind his back. "You are Kestrel, servant to Lady Ortiz?" He demanded, in a deep gravely voice. It sounded ridiculous coming out of so small a man.

Two dark brown eyes narrowed down at the servant in confusion. _Lady Ortiz…?_ "I don't…"

"Formerly, the Johdila of Gang. Radiance of the East and Delight of a Million Eyes." Two expectant blue eyes blinked up at her.

_Sisi_. Kestrel dropped her hand and smoothed down the white folds of her nightgown. Embarrassed at being shown to be so stupid, she cleared her throat. "Yes, I am Kestrel."

"Servant to Lady Ortiz." He rocked on his toes

A flash of irrational anger at her enemy for forcing her to speak his name. "Yes, yes, servant to the Johdila."

"To Lady Ortiz." He corrected her once more. Kess could feel her temper spark.

"What do you want?" Perhaps her voice was too hostile for an innocent Gang maiden; she realised, wincing as a look of surprise crossed the blue-eyed servant's face. Abruptly, she turned her head and avoided his gaze, fussing with the edge of the curtain.

The man coughed. "Yes… Uh, well…" He coughed again, for the third time, his voice coming out deeper than before. "Come with me, please."

Kess began to nod automatically until she felt the servant's gaze drop down to the clothes she was wearing. Or rather, the clothes that she wasn't. "Oh!" A blush scalded up her cheeks. "I'll… eh... have to…"

Another cough. Did this man have a complex? "Of course, mistress. I will wait for you."

"…Thank you."

"Of course, mistress."

Kess dashed away from the window like a fury. Rushing around the caravan, she scrabbled for her clothes, tucked neatly at the foot of her bed. The long green dress, plain and unembroidered except for the tiny line of emerald green thread coiling around the hem. The stockings, the soft, kid-skin shoes that she'd been issued to protect her torn and bleeding feet from the rough stones of the road. She dragged on the shoes, making sure the laces were tight and secure before searching around for something to brush her hair. To her relief, the great set of six mirrors around Sisi's mirror table had not been removed and neither had her plainer set of hairbrushes and combs. Pulling open one of the long, rectangular sheets of reflective glass, she pulled a face at her image staring back at her.

The skin was pale, even more pale than usual and smudges hung under her eyelids. Her eyes were darker and overly bright, like she was suffering from a fever. She reached down for the plain copper handled brush to try and tame her hair. A tremor passed through her as she saw her fingers shake above the copper handle.

Kestrel was afraid.

Fear was not an emotion she was used to dealing with. In childhood, she had never been afraid. In all their adventures she had always fought back, got mad, lost her temper. That had been the dynamics of their little group. She was the brave one, her brother was the cautious one and Mumpo had always been the one who hung back, who preferred to go last. When she had been on the road, before she had met Sisi, she'd never been afraid. She curled up in the shade of trees every night, never lit a fire to keep the wild animals away, scorned any weakness tempting her to deviate from her path and seek a new life in one of the nameless border towns that littered the edges of the Great Road.

But now, after yesterday, she knew fear. The memory of merciless grey eyes sent cold waves of ice running through her veins. She remembered what he could do, how he forced her to stand still when she wanted to run or walk. She remembered losing herself, her memories, her likes, her dislikes, everything that made her Kestrel Hath, Manth woman… and becoming little more than a moving doll, a breathing puppet for his orders.

She had been so happy, so _cleansed_ to leave the cursed city. It was like a heavy weight she had never noticed being piled on, had suddenly lifted, letting her walk straight with her chin up. Of course, she knew that she would have to go back. After all, her family was there, her brother, her friend… But even as she knew it, a tiny part of her couldn't help but wish to stay away and forget everything.

"Miss? Miss, are you ready?"

The copper covered brush clattered onto the little vanity table. Pale hands, empty now, curled into fists. She could feel the pinpricks of uncut nails digging into her palm. "Give me a minute!" The words came strangely easily to her.

"Miss, the men want to come in. They have work to do."

_Men? What men?_ She peered out the window again, screwing up her eyes. The sun had risen a little more since her conversation with Monkey-man and it glared across the Johdila's large, painted caravan. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the gilded edges glow like fire.

Monkey-man was down by the door of the caravan, three huge thugs loitering along beside him. All were tall, bald and built like bulls, their hands hanging down uselessly at their sides. The servant... Well, she knew he was small but shadowed by these three giants, he was a midget.

He looked around, alerted by the faint rustle of muslin curtains. She thought she saw a spasm of irritation cross the tiny screwed-up face before it was smoothed away into a smile. "Miss. If you please…"

_No, I don't please._ Kess thought rebelliously. _I want to go home_.

"Where you want the stuff, guv?" Giant Number One cracked his finger-bones casually, ignoring her completely.

"The cart." Blue eyes skirted away snappishly from Kess. "The one at the end."

"Right you are, guv." The sound of heavy strides thumped against the delicate wooden steps leading up to the caravan door. Briefly, Kess wondered if the steps were even capable of carrying such a weight. Apart from Lunki, they had never held anything heavier than herself or Sisi. And there made even the fat old nursemaid appear as slender as a willow stave. Then she heard a ham-like fist hammering on the door.

"Hope you're decent, Miss!"

"Betcha wouldn't mind if she wasn't, Tom-o!"

"Wait! Wait just one minute!" There was a long green cloak on the floor, fur-trimmed and embroidered with blue thread. Her veil was lying on Sisi's abandoned bed, the white blankets showing up the darker cream of the gauze. With quick, hurried movements, she threw the cloak over her shoulders, feeling it settle down along her back. Then, glancing back at the mirror to make sure it was all right, she pulled her hair back under the veil and set it in place with a small wire band. "I'm ready!"

"Right-o!" And with that cheerful statement as the only word of warning, the door to the Johdila's caravan was heaved in, caving under the weight of a slab-like shoulder. Giants One and Two stumbled onto the floor like two heaps of offal.

Clutching her cloak around her like a shield, Kestrel gave them the coldest look she could muster. Unable to think of a suitable rebuke, she was forced to content herself with a small sniff as she lifted her feet carefully over the large bodies and made her way down the steps. Giant Number One gave a half-hearted swat in the direction of her retreating posterior then sighed again as he missed his intended target by several feet.

Kess left the caravan, her cheeks burning from the muttered complaint about the prissiness of Gang maidens. The sun warmed her through the thick green wool of her cloak, making her shift uncomfortably as she could feel her skin heat. She should call him, she knew. But Monkey-man had disappeared and now she was standing by the steps like a fool, listening to the soft grunts from inside the cabin and feeling hunger gnaw her stomach like a ravenous dog.

A soft murmur of voices to her right. Dark eyes jumped around, dancing with tension.

"That's her, sir." Monkey-man spoke softly, obviously not intending to be overheard. "Lady Ortiz's servant."

"Hmm…" His companion lowered his head slowly, then raised it again. It was a moment before Kess realised that he was in fact nodding. "Yes, she looks like the description. Very well, Merryn. Supervise the men. I will…" But then his voice faded again and she could not hear the rest.

"Of course, sir."

The two men nodded firmly at each other, in perfect time as if at a prearranged signal. Then the other man broke away and began pecking his way over to Kestrel.

The man walked like a stork or a heron picking through river shallows. Every step he took was large and he stuck his long, scrawny legs far out in front of his body. His torso and upper body seemed to hang back a little and his head was furthest back of all, his chin tucked into his neck and every other part of his face drooping down to met the jut of his jaw. His clothes fit him perfectly, the creases of his tunic and shirts crisp and razor-sharp, a curious contrast to the lax sagging of his features.

He stopped in front of her with a little shuffle of his feet. Piercing mud-brown eyes turned up at the corners in an attempt of a smile. Unfortunately, it did not reach his lips. They were pressed tight, the edges turning down with some unknown displeasure or dissatisfaction.

"Miss Kestrel?" He bowed, one liver-spotted hand pressed into his solar plexus.

Kestrel nodded. He bowed once more, more elaborately this time, adding in a tiny flourish of his free hand. "I am Lubulino, miss, head steward of Lord Ortiz's household."

He paused then, as if expecting a reply. What was she supposed to say? _Good for you, I knew you'd do it someday_? "Thank you."

This hadn't been the answer he'd wanted or expected. She could tell. Subtle though it was, the tiny wrinkle in the centre of his nose and the delicate flaring of two large nostrils spoke volumes about his quickly lowering opinion of the Johdila's servant. But he said nothing, merely smiling as best he could. "Miss Kestrel, I have been charged to escort you to Lord Ortiz's household, where you will resume your duties as hand-maiden to Lady Ortiz."

Kess wondered if she'd ever get used to hearing Sisi being addressed as Lady Ortiz. As the wife of the murderer.

"Thank you." She said again. Belatedly, she bobbed an awkward curtsey. It seemed appropriate.

Another smile, warmer this time, broke over the man's face, like sun pealing out from behind an indeterminate cloud. "Miss Kestrel, shall we?"

The Manth woman eyed the hand held up to her with some slight trepidation. If she took it, then there was no going back. Her destiny and her life would be inexorably twisted and entwined with the Mastery.

…With the murderer.

It was her decision. It was her life, her destiny, her future.

Live with guilt or walk hand-in-hand with death.

With only the slightest hesitation, she placed her hand in the steward's thin, cold fingers.

Lubulino nodded briskly; unaware of the crisis of conscience his new charge had just undergone. "Excellent." With his characteristic long stride, he began to lead Kestrel over to the edge of the camp. The two of them walked up beside the carts that even now were spilling over with trunks of the Johilda's clothes, her jewellery cases and her furniture. Giant Number Three was standing guard, a ridiculous awkward note in the midst of such feminine accoutrements, the proverbial ox in the silk shop. Glumly anticipating an uncomfortable ride in the carts, Kess moved away to the side.

A firm tug held her back. "Ah! No, madam." Lubulino twinkled down at her. Her one curtsey had raised her from a 'miss' to a 'madam' and beyond. "_Your_ transport is over here." He continued, pulling her further away from the hard wooden carts.

"Over…"

"Over _here_." The last part of the sentence was thrown out with the embellishment of pride. The heron-like steward grinned benignly down at her, practically flourishing as he presented her mode of transport into the city of the Mastery.

Kess swallowed. "Horses?"

A look of mild insult passed over Lubulino's face. "The very finest. Lady Ortiz insisted upon that."

"Thank you, sir, but I…" Kess trailed off into silence as the steward imperiously motioned two groomsmen forward with one wave of his hand. The animals looked so… _Big_. She ran her tongue over her lips nervously as the impassive groom waited for her to get up on the thing. Receiving no assistance from that quarter, she moved closer to the thing, keeping a wary eye on its dinner-plate-sized hooves. One pale hand moved over the funny bump sticking up on…_What is it called again? Oh. Yes. A saddle._ Experimentally, she tugged at it, hoping some divine intervention would come down and send knowledge on how to get _up_ on this stupid thing rushing through her head.

She waited.

Nothing.

"Miss?"

Monkey-man again. She turned. Looked down. "Yes?"

He cleared his throat politely and cupped his hands together. Kestrel stared at him.

He coughed again. This man definitely had a complex. "So you can mount, miss."

"But I…"

"Yes, miss." No interjection of a personal opinion even tinted his neutral, polite tones. "I am here to assist you. If you would put your left foot in my hands, miss."

One kidskin shoes descended slowly onto the linked fingers. Slowly, she heaped on more and more pressure as, to her surprise, he held her weight easily.

"Don't worry, miss. I won't let you fall. Now, I'm going to move up a little, miss and then you have to swing your leg over the pommel. Zathran's on the other side, miss. He won't let you fall neither."

He was telling the truth. He did move up, but slowly, until her ankle was in line with her right knee and she was hopping a little on one leg. Pale fingers tightened on the leather pommel as she felt herself lurching slightly to one side and losing her balance.

"Jump, miss!"

She couldn't move. All she wanted was to put her two feet on the ground again. Walking. Walking was safe. Why couldn't she walk into the Mastery? Her parents had. Her brother had. Pin-pin had. "I can't!"

"Great stars, woman! Just bloody _jump_!" Came the roar from the other side. Startled, the brown mare sidled to the side, terrified by both the loud noise blaring in her sensitive ears as the heavy lump if weight that had dropped onto her back like a sack of ungainly potatoes. A wave of spontaneous applause burst out from the sidelines as Kestrel clung on for dear life to the sticking up pommel in front of her.

"Miss! Just hook your leg…"

"Hold on, we've got you!"

"Groomsman, control that damned horse!"

"Yes sir!"

"Miss, your leg…"

"It's in! She's up!"

Another clatter of applause sounded out from the sidelines as Kestrel – shaken and shaking – straightened up in the saddle. Brown eyes glared furiously at the small crowd of Gang servants who had gathered to view the spectacle she was making of herself. The Manth woman didn't even notice the small hands that quickly shoved her foot into the stirrup; she was so busy cursing the names of everyone who had witnessed her humiliation.

"She's ready, Zathran. Lead her out."

"Yes, sir."

The horse jerked forward into motion and Kess was dragged with it, her body flung up over pommel like a broken puppet. Monkey-man ran alongside her. "Sit up straight, miss! You have to hold the reins like this." He mimed holding out one hand into a type of elegant fist. It looked vaguely like he was presenting a bunch of invisible flowers.

"Reins?"

"The leather strings, miss."

"Oh." She found them, held them like he showed her. It helped. A little.

"That's it, miss."

The road when flat for a little while, leading them away from the camp steadily. Up ahead was a bend, turning left and leading away into the Great Road that ran, a shining river of white and golden stones, down to the City of the Mastery. Down into her chosen destiny.

She wondered if the men beside knew what she had come to do.

"We'll be out of sight of the camp in a few minutes, miss." The gentle mutter came from in front of her, the man they called Zathran. "'Case you want to…"

_Say goodbye_. Her heart contracted slightly as she thought of tiny Lazarim with his swirling skirts and indescribable passion for the tantaraza. He'd helped her. Maybe he'd miss her too, now that she was gone. Carefully, shifting her body until her waist was in a diagonal with the saddle, she peeped back over her shoulder, squinted around the edge of her veil.

A warm glow spread through her as brown eyes fell on the tiny figure in spangled robes, waiting patiently by the edge of the caravan. He _had_ come to say goodbye. Her eyes widened in surprise as the dancing instructor raised his hand and waved it slowly from side to side.

Lazarim tipped up on his toes, stretching up as high as he could in his attempt to grab her attention. He had barely made it out in time to bid her farewell. The breath puffed from his lips as he fought to control his heart beat, still racing from the exertion. He had run all the way there, from his caravan on the other side of the camp.

Large eyes narrowed then widened with delight as he saw one tiny hand rise up and appear to move. She had seen him! But then the front part of the convoy had reached the bend in the road and she was gone.

The disciple of the tantaraza rocked back on his heels and sighed. He had just lost the best pupil he had ever taught in his life. It hurt. He could have done so much with her. Made her a star, brought her all over the world… With the Johdila's new marriage to the Master's heir, nothing was impossible. Thoughts of what-if warmed him like a fire. How the Water-Dancers of Haran would have stared at them, master and pupil. How the deadly knife-spinners of Poines would've gasped!

But it was not to be. Regretfully, he followed the last lines of the carts as they moved out of sight. He would miss the strange little bird that had flown into their lives along the wearying march to the Mastery. But she had better places to go now. She had to spread her wings a little.

_Fly away, child!_ He called to her in his mind. _Fly away! This was not your place, here._

With one last sigh, he made his way back to the caravan campfire to prepare for the departure.


	5. Chapter 4: The City

**_The City_**

* * *

The Manth woman looked down on the city of her enemies and marvelled to herself. When she'd last seen the city, it had been cluttered and bedecked with bunting and flags, glittering like a giant diamond. It had been magnificent then, shining in its own joy. But now, with only the lingering traces of the festivities still lingering from the highest peaks of the tallest buildings, she could appreciate the beauty of the true city.

Huge creamy yellow walls rose up from the edges of the island, glowing golden in the early morning sunlight. Inside it, she could see enormous domed roofs popping up at various intervals, like mushrooms in a field. Unlike normal cities –unlike Aramanth – the roofs weren't the same colour as their walls. Instead they were bright, rich hues; reds glowing like the sun, blues that matched the shimmering shade as the water below the walls, greens that rivalled the grass below her. It looked like the Mastery had raided their treasury rooms to cover the tops of their homes in rubies, emeralds and intense sapphires.

Around each towering building, right at the top, she thought she could see a row of large mirrors that reached from floor to ceiling. The glass curled around the buildings like a necklace of diamonds. They sent flashes of sharp, white light out and made the buildings sparkle and shimmer like the water below them.

The city was like a jewel-encrusted brooch, ringed in gold and surrounded by blue silk. It was even more beautiful than on the day of the wedding. More beautiful than any city she'd ever seen.

But it was rotten on the inside, she reminded herself, shuddering slightly and folding back into the shelter of her cloak. Any city built on slaves was rotten to the core.

On either side of them, long fields stretched out, divided like pieces of a jigsaw by waterways and ditches. The earth was covered in light brown stubble, proclaiming a late harvest. Close by, Kestrel could see children out and about, industriously plucking berries from the gorse of the bushes. The little boys and girls were laughing, their mouths stained a bright purple from the juices of the blackberries they were stuffing into their mouths on the sly. In the fields near them, their parents toiled cheerfully with the earth, digging, uprooting, and collecting the last sheaves of grain that littered the ground. They paused as the convoy passed by, shading their eyes in wonderment at the luxuries piled high in the wagons. Undeterred by notions of etiquette or concern for the foreign girl who rode alongside the steward of the Master's son, they stared at her, their eyes scorching up and down her awkwardly placed body and unusual clothing. Kess straightened self-consciously under their scrutiny and loud whispers, pulling her light veil forward until it shadowed her face completely. The steward noticed her action and smiled over at her calmly. "They stare, madam, because you are so unusual." He confided in an almost paternal fashion, as they passed the in the edges of the lakeshore. "It is not often that we see strangers here in the Mastery." Inwardly though, he was surprised at the girl's reticence. He had enjoyed the increased attention, the awe, the reverent respect he had commanded, leading such a rich caravan into the city.

Kestrel managed a small smile at him, politely acknowledging his concern for her. The clip clop of the horses' hooves echoed over the drawbridge, through the great wooden doors that guarded the entrance to the city. Guards saluted as they passed and Lubulino nodded graciously from side to side like a king. The high walls of the city towered above them like mountains. For a moment they were almost completely overshadowed just by the gates. It was like passing through a tunnel – but whether she was entering Heaven or Hell, the brown eyed woman still hadn't quite decided.

They passed through clean streets, the roads paved in large slabs of dark grey limestone, cut from the mountains to the south-west. Each slab was enormous; perhaps fourteen feet wide and seven long and pockmarked with tiny holes from the many feet and horses hat had moved over it in all the years. Surrounding it in neat, straight lines, rose small two-storey buildings, whitewashed and plain. Unlike the poorer quarters of Aramanth, there were no graffiti on the walls, no areas where the paint was flaking. The sun glistened on patches where the walls had been freshly painted only yesterday, showing that a regular maintenance team was in place.

The buildings were built close together, with only tiny streets leading off into, what Kess thought, looked like a large inner courtyard. The houses built so close together, they appeared to be a continuation of the wall. Only this time they were separating one group of people from another.

The streets were packed with people; men and women, all dressed in a serviceable brown. They were crowded together, like cattle at a mart. But it was no random crushing together of people. Kess narrowed her eyes. In each group there appeared to be a passing resemblance: in some there was a similarity around the eyebrows, in other the mould of their bodies. In one particular group, every single person, man woman and child, had flaming red hair, the colour of rust. Splotches of black moved through the crowd, as the guards plucked people out of their family groups and lead them to the front where a man with a green armband noted down the numbers burned into each wrist and motioned them away. The chosen people were lead away, escorted by the wails of their kinfolk, down the shadowed alleys and into the square, until Kess could no longer see them.

"Ah. The monkey-cages." A dismissive voice interrupted her thoughts from her left-hand side. "Ignore the noise they make, madam. The slaves are always like that. So… unrestrained."

A child was marched to the front of the queue, trembling with fear. For a second, large blue eyes glanced over the two well-dressed people mounted on fine horses. One small fist clenched and unclenched, forcing some type of courage into the small child's soul. Casually, the man with the green armband twisted her wrist over and noted down the number. In the silence – the unnatural silence – she could hear his words clearly. "Cage Number Four."

"It's full sir."

"Five, then."

"Yes, sir."

Kess glanced back over at Lubulino, wondering if he felt even a hint of the horror and nausea that was threatening to engulf her that very moment. Instead the tall, heron-like man was carefully inspecting his clean nails, tutting softly over a speck of dirt resting under the nail of his thumb. Glancing up, he met her eyes and raised his eyebrows. "Madam? You are composed?"

Pulling the edge of her cloak further over her shoulder until only the curve of her cheek was visible to the silent crowd, Kess nodded.

He smiled. "Then we shall continue."

Ducking her head, the Manth woman copied his motions and pressed her heels into the horse's sides until it began to move forward, ambling slowly past the crowds of slaves, waiting quiet as oxen for the call to dismiss and vanish to their respective tasks. Kess turned her head away; hoping none of them would recognise her. It would not be wise to have her nationality revealed at now. Safer for everyone to think she was from Gang. It meant she would have more freedom, would not be confined to the slave quarters. It was safer.

Then why did she feel like she was betraying her family?

They had now ridden past the slave quarters and Kess began to see the outer layer of the true City of the Mastery. The surroundings were more salubrious now. The utilitarian look of repetition had disappeared, leaving individualised shops and houses lining the streets. Most of them were made out of a strange, almost honey-coloured stone, instead of the grey limestone used in the lower ring, but the basic structure of the streets were the same, even if the lanes were more narrow and twisted slightly every now and again. Shop signs bristled above doorways, advertising every trade known to man. Kestrel could see goldsmiths, engravers, dressmakers… the shops piled in on each other in a mish-mash of glorious merchandise, richer and more luxurious than anything she'd ever seen before. Dashing out beside them, leading away like sunlit rabbit warrens, were other streets, the upper storeys strung from side to side with laundry and clothes, so brightly coloured that they looked like bunting.

Something drifted down onto her shoulder: she could feel it, the soft tip against her cloak, so light, it was barely there. Suspicions reared. It could be anything: the tap of a guard, the gentle blow of Death personified. Reaching back, her hand closed around something soft and drooping. She blinked in confusion. Resting in the centre of her palm was a tiny petal. Dark pink veins diffused out through the white centre, tinting the velvety flower a delicate pastel colour. Frowning, she glanced up and her eyes widened in surprise. Above each shop front hung a tiny, egg-box sized balcony, overloaded with flowers. The iron-railed stepping areas would scarcely had supported child; yet each one was as lovingly tended for as the rest of the Middle Ring, each reflecting the unique tastes of their occupants. One was spilling over with exotic lilies, some of which she recognised from growing wild along the rods far to the west of here. Another was a jungle of wide-leafed palms and waxy foliage that emitted a faint rubbery scent that Kess caught even down on the street. Another was messy with dancing white candyfloss-like flowers, the one above the jeweller's was singing with multicoloured poppies.

Street-bawlers shouted out their early morning wares to the occupants of the apartments, holding up their trays of fruit and fresh milk bottles to be seen and bought.

"Milk! Fresh milk! Buy, mistress, buy!"

"Sharp razors, oh, my razors sharp! Shaved for a silver, bald for two!"

"Oranges! Oranges from Gerat and fresh for your table!"

"Bread! Bread for sa- Oi! You! Luckless! Watch where you're damn goin'!"

The convoy pushed up the main street, the horses straining forward with the uphill slope, their heads low and almost touching the ground. The servants followed up the rear, exchanging good-natured curses with the bawlers who had been shoved out the way by their progress. Some of the sellers even shouted encouragement to the horses, laughing as they did so.

"Go on Mabel! There's a carrot in it for you."

"Can that old nag walk any faster? It's as slow as a…" The words were drowned out in an indignant whinny from the insulted equine, rousing a wave of laughter from the spectators.

"You'd know all about slow, wouldn't you, Dago?"

"Slowest goddamn snail in the whole goddamn city!"

"You sir! Oranges? Fresh oranges? Only the best for your lady, sir?" The voice was ingratiating and obsequious, unlike the brash squawks of the other vendors. Lubulino smiled graciously and tossed down a few coppers into the dark, outstretched palm, plucking a round fat orange from the sturdy tray that was being held up for his inspection. With a smile as wide as the lip of the bay, the scrubby faced child pulled their dark palm down to eye-level. Turning around in her saddle (precariously, she had to admit) Kess saw the two large green eyes widen in shock at first and then outrage as the three copper pieces glowed dully in the morning sunlight. With an incoherent shout of disgust, the child spat in the gutter and shoved the money into a small leather pouch hanging from his belt. Two fingers flashed up briefly at Lubulino's oblivious back in a rude and vicious salute before the boy disappeared into the swelling crowd once more, roaring out his wares in a high-pitched shriek.

She had barely stifled a chuckle before she realised that the culprit of the boy's rage was smiling paternally at her once more, a juicy segment of orange flesh held out in his outstretched palm.

"Madam?"

Silently, Kestrel shook her head. To distract herself from his hurt acceptance of her refusal, she turned her head to the side and stared idly into the shop windows. The wares were really astonishing, she admitted quietly to herself, hating to even grant this one modicum of approval on the city of her enemy. In Aramanth, they stocked the essentials, with few luxuries. Most of the stock had come from nearby or the farm valleys to the near south of her home. There weren't even that many shops – certainly not the amount that dealt with such specialised trade as here. She could see fruit she had never known existed, gold necklaces glittering in the sun (although the majority of the jewellery was in silver or fool's gold, reflecting the relatively middle-class surrounding of the Middle Ring), pottery carved and emblazoned with geometric designs and unusual shapes and flowers she had never known existed. It was incredible the variety and number of products on sale. It was like every country in the world had donated some of their produce and creations to fill the shops of the Mastery.

Slowly, she noticed that the shops began growing larger and larger and the road started to smooth out into a level line. Th horses came up from their hunched crouches and began to pull the heavy caravans with a bit more relief now. Even the crowds seemed more genteel, quieter and better dressed than the loud, vigorous rabble that had thronged through the lower, steeper streets. The twisting street widened into a sweeping boulevard of wide pavements and discreet shop signs. In turn, it too widened out in a large square, with more buildings in the same honey-yellow stone clustered around on all sides. A large, Palladian structure graced the far side and if she narrowed her eyes, Kess thought she could see crowds of people hurrying in and out of the wide, thrown open doors. An aside from the heron-like steward informed her that it was the City Hall, the centre for all administration in the City. Middle-aged men in long sweeping coats and self-important paunches sailed across their path, moving graciously towards the large building with servants (invariably dressed in either slave uniforms or extremely basic versions of a personal livery) tottering after them, scrolls and books clutched in their hands. Startlingly white neck-stocks were knotted elaborately around their necks in wild extravagancies of cloth and tie-pins and, balanced precariously on their head, each man wore a tall wig with an vertical fringe thrown up and standing rigidly perpendicular from the crowns of their heads. They were the councillors, Lubulino told her _sotto voce_, men who dealt with overseeing the upkeep and law and order in the slave quarters and the Middle Ring. They were like little kings in their own jurisdiction but in truth had little real power, being completely answerable to the Master and his own advisors. Nevertheless they held themselves as high as their High Domain counterparts and brushed their wigs – their symbols of power - even higher.

For a moment, the cavalcade paused on the entrance of the square. Confused, Kess turned around as Lubulino kicked his horse around and had a low voiced conversation with the Monkey-Man. She saw the tiny dwarf nod briefly and bow to his superior. Then his tiny legs kicked the ribs of his horse and he was away, shouting orders to the drivers and waving them away into one of the wider side streets.

"Sir?"

The mud-brown eyes flickered back to her and he urged his horse into a lazy walk up towards her. "Madam?"

"The others…Where are they…?"

"Going? I told them to take the back streets, madam. One cannot after all," He chuckled softly, "Have an entire caravan striding up the streets of the High Domain."

She frowned. "Why not?"

Clearly this wasn't a question he had been expecting. He stared at her in shock. "Bring a caravan up the High Domain? Madam… It just isn't _done_."

_Why not_? She was tempted to ask once more, but seeing little success in continuing this line of conversation the Manth woman merely set her lips into a smile and nodded back at the steward. Thin shoulders seemed to relax in relief at her acquiescence. With a low bow, Lubulino held out his hand to her. A ridiculous, pointless gesture, but really, so like him.

"Shall we?"

They crossed the great square in a rigidly straight diagonal line, Kess following where the steward led. Their locomotion across was astonishingly smooth. Not once did they check their horses to allow one of the portly councillors across their path. Neither too did the striding, bewigged men pause or hitch for even a moment in their perambulations. The two riders and their pedestrian counterparts negotiated the great honey-cobbled rectangle like a strange dance, each partner waltzing carefully around the other. It was like this city: beauty and grace in the most unexpected places.

Finally, they reached a large, elaborate arch, stretching across the road leading out the north west of the Great Square. Like the rest of the city, no real iron gates separated the High Domain from the Middle Ring. However there might as well have been, so great was the difference between the two districts. Even peering through the arches, Kess could see it. The streets were cleaner, wider, whiter. Immaculately smooth pavestones in pale, pale cream stones lay along the gently sloping avenues. Trees blossomed from the ground, providing soothing baths of shadows to rest in from the heating morning sun. There are no hard edges here that she can see: everything is rounded and smooth. The roads, the corners, the sweeping turns and views.

Beside her, she barely heard the steward as he sighed in appreciation and whispered: "Welcome to the Gates of Heaven, madam."

It was Heaven. It had to be Heaven. She had never seen anything like this before, not in Aramanth, not in the wilderness along the Great Road. The houses were as graceful as swans, sitting stationary on a clear pond. There were no shops here, no bawdy street sellers. Everything was quiet and elegant and refined. It was like lace, like ice, like diamonds, like anything fine and beautiful in the world.

The bird-like call of the flute drifted out on the air, carried along by a breeze that lightened the growing humidity of the day. Kess turned her head, following its sound. It had come from one of the houses, spilling out of a top window. If she squinted, she thought she could see someone pacing about in front of the window, their face creased in concentration and beautiful music pouring out from the instrument between their fingers. Even though she was here in the heart of her enemy's world, Kestrel could feel her face relax in a small smile of pleasure at the rivers of silvery sound that the stranger was creating.

A subdued giggle woke her up from the daze of blankness she had been steered into by the music. Sitting up straight, brown eyes glanced around in surprise, in time to see two elegantly dressed young woman ride past her, their silk autumn cloaks billowing lightly in the breeze across their horses' flanks. Flashing green eyes caught her gaze and Kess felt the sharp-eyed look scorch up and down her dowdy provincial clothes and overly modest veil. A tiny smirk darted across the noble woman's face and she leaned in closer to her friend, bringing up her white hand to shield the words whispering from her tongue. Heat scorched across the brown-eyed woman's cheeks. Instinctively, she shrank back into the heavy protection of her cloak, pulling up until it covered one shoulder. A melodious laugh echoed out from behind her before it faded away into the gentle murmurs of the High Domain.

As she passed another turn, the full western view of the bay flew out before them. Without thought, without consultation, the two people on horseback paused by the wall, struck dumb by the sheer brilliance of the sight.

The High Domain, Kess realised now, was not just the upper part of the city, completely cut off from any part of the lakeshore. All along the southern part of the island city, were pleasure gardens, each one on the edge of the lake. Bright beds of flowers blossomed in the green spaces beside artificially created piers and marinas. If she screwed up her eyes, she could see small groups of men and women floating through the parks, their silken clothes like multicoloured butterflies on the breeze.

A soft sigh broke out from the steward by her side. As she turned to his questioningly, he gave a small faux-modest smile and waved a hand at the view. "Forgive me, madam. My sentimentality is such that I cannot but be moved by the sight of our city. But I fear, it is nothing to Obagang, is it not?"

Still in a slight trance after the loveliness of the High Domain, Kestrel replied without thinking. "I've never seen Obagang."

The instant the words were out of her mouth, she felt the world drop out beneath her. Her grip tightened on the leather ropes – _reins_ – as a sick, crunching feeling rolled through her stomach. Fear spread through her like a virus, flowing along her blood vessels and pulsing along under the skin. She could feel it, pushing through the frail skin on the back of her hand. She could almost smell the flames, the soot, and the crackling fires as they nipped at her feet…

"Oh." A disconcerted noise from Lubulino. "I…well… Yes. Such a large country… Probably not… Forgive me."

She froze. He believed her? He wasn't suspicious?

A cough came from her side. "If you will, madam, Lady Ortiz…"

Kestrel lifted her head, straightened her back and nodded with courage. She was safe so far. And she would continue on. The magnificence she had just seen was a nothing, a paradise carved from misery, she told herself firmly. It would not stand. The Mastery was living through its final days. She promised herself that.

They rode downhill now; passing through more beautiful streets that somehow seemed almost too beautiful, too perfect. The gracefully carved fountains, the smooth intricate masonry, the sense of music and rhythm pealing from every house now created a suffocating blanket of luxury. She was drowning in the beauty of it, so much so, she was glad when she saw the vaguely patronising looks she was gathering from the inhabitants of the High Domain. It stopped her from falling in love with the place all over again.

A right turn and they were riding down a quiet street. Slaves in a distinctive emerald green swept some of the early falling leaves from the pathways, silently and efficiently. There was no music here. Only the soft, far away noise of waves washing against the island-shore and the whisper of wind in leaves. Kess heaved in a sigh of relief at the completely natural silence that at once seemed completely comforting and homely. They rode a little way down the street before turning right again, Lubulino's horse leading the way.

A courtyard opened up in front of them, the house standing graciously, unobtrusively centre stage. Made of plain, simple stone, It had none of the external intricacies and embellishments of some of the buildings she had passed on he way. Instead the elegance came from the setting of the house, the placing of the stones, the blending in of the external fringing walls and the main body. Large, slowly rising front steps led up to a wide, double-doored entrance of light, golden coloured wood. Oak or perhaps polished ash, she thought. Three floors rose up in front of her, casting a midday shadow over the entire courtyard.

Lubulino dismounted from his bay mare with obvious relief, completely ignoring the young boy who had rushed forward to grasp his horse's reins. A gesture of his hand and two other servants appeared from the shadows of the hidden stables, one rushing to her horse's head, the other moving quietly over to the right hand side of Kess, holding up his arms expectantly to catch as she fell from the horse. The sleeve of dark red – _a house livery?_ – fell down his arm, exposing charred flesh, there, right there at the base of his wrist. And a number. 3586.

Nausea jumped up her throat. They had_ burned _a number into a person's _skin_. Other people did that. The Master of this city had ordered that. They had hurt people, her people so that they may have _order_.

For a moment, she could not move from the servant's arms. She was too afraid to move, certain that if she did so she would attack someone – _the murderer_ – attack and kill someone, the fury and hurt pride inside her was building up so high.

"Miss? You okay?"

The words rumbled in the giant's chest. The Manth woman glanced up, biting her lip as she saw two worried brown eyes, placid and untroubled as a cow's. In an instant the rage was gone, washed out of her in three simple words.

She was sane now. Calm, controlled and deadly.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Madam? If I may…" Lubulino intercepted the brief conversation smoothly. One liver-spotted hand captured hers and she was being pulled so gently she could barely feel it, away from the now blushing groom (_blushing? What's he_ blushing_ for_?) and onwards towards the front steps of the house. As they mounted the steps, his voice was like an informative gnat buzzing in her tired ears. "Servants' entrance over there…" He pointed to small door tucked into the lower, below ground floor of the house, a flight of tiny steps leading down to it. He took on a vaguely monotonous tone as he relayed the usual information to her. "Although we are entering via the main entrance this once, you will, of course, always from now on use the servants' door. Lord Ortiz will not appreciate you disturbing his guests!" He laughed after that, as if it was a joke. Kess couldn't even crack a polite smile.

The two great doors caved inwards as if by a silent signal. Lubulino hadn't even raised his hand to knock. The steward did not even notice. His voice carried on as he guided her indoors, more lively now. "Of course, Lord Ortiz originally had his own rooms closer to the Master's palace but since the betrothal, he has lived here. The Master gave it to him as a wedding present. After all – Yes, what is it?" He turned away as another servant dressed in the same dark red and black livery touched his elbow and tip-toed up to whisper in his ear.

The interruption gave Kestrel time to look around her, to absorb her surroundings, to map it down in her mind and plan for escape routes.

But she couldn't. Every time she tried, she would see something new and intriguing and the thought would fly out of her head once more. There was so much to see, so much to marvel at.

So much beauty.

A domed ceiling of plain, uncarved white marble fell down in a perfect arch from the centre of the room, meeting the walls of the second floor and flowing into them so smoothly it was impossible to say where one began and the other finished. The second floor was open, a white marble barrier protecting anyone on the storey from falling down onto the ground floor. Kess could see the doors of the second floor easily, past the balcony-like corridors in front of them. A sweeping, exquisite stairway of rare cedar wood connected the two floors, a faint exotic scent still emitting from it. The handrails curled at the end into two carefully carved spirals, the banister planting firmly into the white marble floors of the hallway. The hallway itself was plain almost to the point of severity with practically no furniture gracing its walls.

Only a small basin by the door for catching people's cards as they visited and the two waist high jars of green jungle-like plants by the doorway graced the room. And the rug. Embroidered in gold and sky-blue nightingales around the edges, it was rich and vibrant, the definite colours making a perfect foil for the immaculate whiteness of the rest of the room. The weave was so small it could not be seen, creating the illusion of completeness, of life almost.

A cough. Lubulino's cough. "Forgive me, madam, but I fear that I have pressing matters to attend to in other areas." He bowed, his hand pressed to his chest like before. A wave to the side brought his companion forward. Brown eyes widened in mild surprise. It was Monkey-man. "Merryn will escort you upstairs to your mistress."

Monkey-man – _Merryn_ bowed. "Miss Kestrel."

Kess nodded at him politely. With another bow, this time to Lubulino, Merryn strode ahead, gesturing Kestrel to follow behind.

They made their way up the stairs, Merryn carefully instructing the Manth woman to go only on the edges of the steps. "Don't want to muddy the centre or you'll catch it from Old Misery." He muttered, discreetly jerking a thumb back in the direction of Lubulino's retreating back. Like the steward, he kept up a running commentary of the house and its recent history, only his information was delivered in short, self-reserved starts that contained as much information in as few words as possible. With small, barely seen hand movements, he pointed out Ortiz's bedroom, the hidden entrance to the servants' stairs, the library ("Keep your nose out of there. Master don't like anyone disturbing him.") and finally the door of Sisi's bed chamber. "It's a big one, bigger than the Master's even." The short, stocky man said quietly, nodding forwards towards it. "He said the Lady should've the most comfortable."

The dark haired woman nodded calmly, waiting for him to announce her. Realising that she was not going to offer him any answer, Merryn cleared his throat and rapped on the door formally.

Raised voices called out on the other side of the door, one commanding and slightly haughty, the other rushed and worried. A rumble of thumping feet hurried towards the door. A click of a lock and Lunki's fat comfortable face peered out between the crack of wall and door. "Yes?"

Merryn cleared his throat. "Miss Kestrel has arrived, my lady-"

"Kess!" A cry of joy and the Johdila had swirled out of the door. Kestrel had a brief impression of her glowing smile and too-bright brown eyes before she was engulfed in a fierce, thin-armed hug. Lunki's squawks of outraged decorum, the shocked silence of Merryn… For a moment, Kess allowed herself to forget them all as she hugged her friend, the Johdila of Gang back as tightly as she could.

The two girls were barely aware of Lunki's gentle herding until they were once more back in the closed bedchamber and the door was shut. Smiling slightly at her charge's complete joy at seeing the friend once more, the old nurse-maid moved away, busying herself with rearranging the already neatly put away dresses in the Johdila's new wardrobe and placing some scented oils made from Gang wildflowers in the bathroom.

Letting go of the brown-haired Princess, Kestrel gripped her arms tightly. Dark brown eyes frowned firmly into the joyously bright face of her friend, worry darkening the brown colour until it was almost black. "Sisi, are you all right?"

The Johdila laughed lightly and avoided her gaze. Carefully, she disengaged herself from Kess's tight grip on her wrists and walked gracefully over to her dressing table where the six connected mirrors had already been placed. "Of course, I'm all right, Kess." She teased the Manth woman gently. "Why shouldn't I be?" A shadow of irony passed over her words, adding a slightly bitter twist to her radiant smile.

"That… that…"

"Murderer, you call him." Sisi avoided her friend's penetrating gaze and tried to smile again. But this time, the doll's smile was slower in coming. "He's not… so bad."

Kestrel's lips tightened into a thin line as she worriedly followed Sisi's aimless movements. "Did he… I mean, did you…"

The doll-like mask fell down abruptly. With a slow sigh, she put the perfume bottle she had been toying with down onto the wooden dressing table. "Yes."

Silence echoed through the room. Sisi shifted slightly, uncomfortable in Kestrel's mute pity. Brown eyes rose up and met the dark-haired woman's gaze for the first time. Her words forced out slowly, hesitantly. "He… He was very… polite. Very polite." Biting her lip, she wrapped her arms around herself, as if fighting off a sudden chill. Impulsively, Kess went over to her. Pale arms in green cloth encased the shivering Princess. With relief, Sisi leaned into her friend's embrace. One soft-skinned hand reached out and clutched the green-cloth covered arm.

"Friends, Kess?"

The Manth woman gazed down at the golden wood floor, holding her friend's trembling body tighter. "Always, Sisi." She mumbled softly. "Always."

* * *

Ortiz quietly closed the door of his library. As the lock clicked into place and the noise of the rest of the house muted in volume, he exhaled softly.

_Kess_. Kestrel. It was her name. The lady, the dark-eyed lady, the servant, the woman he loved… her name was Kestrel.

He almost laughed. It was so ridiculous. He had loved her for what felt like a lifetime and yet he had never known her name. But he did now. Kess.

Carefully, he ran over the scene in his mind. Her name. The servant had announced her. Then the Johdila – He checked himself. His wife. His wife had rushed out and embraced her like a long lost sister. He remembered the rush of emotions fleeting across _her_ face. She had never been able to control her emotions, he recalled. They were always flying across her face, her dark brown eyes, like fire, like banners. She had hugged his wife tightly, affection evident in every line of her body. And her eyes had flashed and softened. He'd never seen her eyes soften before. It turned them a warm brown colour, still dark but gentler now, more comforting. He wished she would look at him like that. Maybe it would happen. Someday.

He wandered over to the large, floor to ceiling glass doors that led out onto the wide terrace wrapping around the southern face of his house, barely noticing what he was doing. The sunlight drowned the entire front of his library, picking out the dark green and red leather of the books in the shelves. Dust specks floated along on the white light. The white caught the bright gold of his wedding ring and flashed.

Hazel eyes glanced down at the symbol of his marriage and his lips tightened slightly. His wife. The gold ring seemed to tighten unbearably along his finger, reminding him of the life he was now in. Of his new responsibilities. He was no longer single, he could no longer do as he pleased, love where he pleased. He had a duty, a responsibility towards his wife. He could not use her as an excuse to see the dark-eyed lady… to see Kestrel again. It would not be honourable or right. It would be cruel.

The temptation to scorn honour and etiquette was overwhelming.

Irritably, he strode over to his desk. It was of redwood, like the one in his bedroom and situated a little way out from the direct glare of the sun. He preferred it like that. With quick, hurried movements he began to riffle through the various proposals that the Master's Council had put forward that week. Even if he was on his supposed 'honeymoon' – he restrained a snort at the thought, memories of the previous night flying over him – he knew it would be sheer stupidity to let himself fall back on any of the current issues in the Council. Particularly since his marriage. He had to keep all thoughts of the dark-eyed servant out of his head. He had a wife. A wife he would remain faithful to, physically if no way else.

_Kess._ The word whispered through his mind, distracting him.

He had responsibilities, duties. Duties to his Master, to his wife. Duties to himself, to his father's memory.

_Kess._

He could not – would not ignore those duties for a whim. A mere fantasy.

_Kess_…

* * *

The silver cutlery tinkled gently against the plates. With delicate precision, the former Johdila of Gang speared the last few strawberry slices that lay in the rich creamy sauce of her dessert. Opposite her, at the head of the table, her husband was silently consuming a tasteless dinner, instincts making him retreat to the old childhood dictate of chewing each mouthful thirty times and not wasting anything on his plate. Neither met the other's eyes.

Ortiz swallowed his last bite and felt strangely hollow inside. He was used to eating alone. In the past few years, he'd begun to enjoy it. He could relax when he was alone, read at the table, slouch or just wallow in the comfortable silence, letting occasional thoughts filter into his mind and disappear again. But now, uncertain of Lady Ortiz's preferences (he did not make the mistake of calling her by her personal name again), he felt forced to make polite conversation to put her at her ease.

Unfortunately the weather, as a topic, only lasted for a maximum of two courses.

He could have, he supposed, watching his unveiled wife dab prettily at her lips with the linen napkin, eschewed the formal dining room and invited her to have dinner on his terrace. But the thought of having to make conversation with her there… of having her there revolted him. The southern terrace had always been private to him. Every time he thought about inviting her out there as an attempt to create some type of relationship between them, his heart sank. He couldn't imagine relaxing out there with his radiantly beautiful and spectacularly dull wife, showing her the views of the lake shore and the forest on the far side where he used to go when he'd run away from his tutor and play and climb the trees with his friends.

Briefly, an image of sharing the sunny, wide balcony with another woman jumped into his mind, a darker woman with brown-black eyes… But then a sound broke the silence and he started.

"Yes, my lady?"

"I was wondering how your day was, my lord."

"Oh." Ortiz dragged himself away from ridiculous imaginings and straightened in his chair. "It went well, my lady. Thank you."

An awkward silence of ignorance filled the room. Then etiquette hit Ortiz like a battering ram. "And… you. My lady. Did you… Did you enjoy your day?"

"Yes, thank you my lord." She paused and dabbed her lips with the napkin once more. "I would like to thank you for having my things brought from the caravan. It was most generous of you."

He reached out for the glass of wine that stood by his elbow and sipped it slightly, etiquette again restraining him from tossing it back his throat. "And your servant?"

Her sea-blue eyes flew up in shock. "My… my servant." She stated again, caution edging on her words.

"Yes, the dark-haired girl. Kestrel." Deliberate casualness in his voice. He had not needed to say her name but he couldn't help himself. _I'm becoming obsessed_, he thought silently.

Sisi watched her husband carefully. Uncalled for, the words Bowman had uttered in that small antechamber off the manaxa echoed in her mind. _"He loves my sister, Kestrel."_ Was it true? She wondered. Did her husband really love Kess? Kess, who hated him? "Oh yes." She replied diffidently. "Kestrel."

"She is settling in well?"

"Oh yes."

Ortiz wondered briefly if she ever moved her thought patterns beyond the conventional "Oh yes", "Oh no" or "I don't know". Falling back into silence once more, he gazed meditatively at the ruby red heart of the wine in his glass. Like blood. The Master always preferred white wine so clear it appeared as transparent as water. The thought of the Master sent a reminder through his brain and he lifted his head to his wife once more.

"I'll not be here tomorrow."

She blinked. "Oh."

Ortiz blushed slightly at the rudeness of his statement. "What I mean is… I'll have to go somewhere. I'll be gone most of the day." A pause. Then, he added, as if as an afterthought. "Don't bother keeping dinner for me…my lady. I… I do not expect to be back until late."

"Yes, my lord." She agreed quietly, her hands linked neatly on her lap. She looked absurdly young in that pose, rather like a child than the married woman she now was. A faint niggle of guilt worked its way into his heart. He should try harder to like her, to see her good qualities. Not to always see her as an obstacle.

"I'll be taking my…my truth teller with me." Another piece of useless information. But how else was he to continue making conversation?

She nodded. He held back a sigh. The awkward silence had been firmly reinstated.

For want of something to do, he reached down for his dessert fork, expecting the next course to come out through the door in a bustle of pomp and ceremony. But there was nothing there. There were no more forks left. He glanced down, frowning a little in surprise. There was no more cutlery left, he realised, seeing the snowy white linen stretching out in front of him, bare and plain as a desert. The table had been cleared. His heart sank a little as he thought of what must inevitably come next. What was his duty.

The chair screeched slightly against the wooden floors as he stood up, sending a servant rushing to his side to lift it back out of his way. He glanced back and forced a small smile of thanks onto his lips, nodding politely at the poker-faced footman. Lady Ortiz looked up in surprise at her husband's unexpected move. But then she say the tired, resigned look in his eyes and the practised, warm smile on his lips and comprehension dawned. Without speaking, he held out his hand to her. A silent question.

She raised her hand and laid it in his, accepting it without emotion. Together, they left the room, each moving forward perfectly in time, not pulling back, not dragging their feet. They had been schooled too well for that.

The clock in the corner struck ten.


	6. Chapter 5: The Rise

**_The Rise_**

* * *

Dust rose up from the road as the great caravan of Gang trundled along the barren trails of the Great Road. Surrounded on all sides by the impassive columns of Johjan guards, the gilded caravans ambled onwards, the mules and great plough horses moving slowly, steadily through the bare terrain, their heads low and almost touching the ground. The flimsy curtains that covered the windows of the noble carriages – including the extravagant pair belonging to the Johanna and his Johdi – were caked with dust and clumps of dirt from the road. The brightly-painted panels that were cut into each carriage wall were hidden under grime, so much so that soon each caravan was indistinguishable from the last, from the most aristocratic of conveyances to the simple, plan wagons of the servants and privates soldiers.

For the first week of the journey home to Obagang, the Johdi had ordered that each caravan be cleaned thoroughly at dusk. This action was accomplished with a great deal of cursing and complaints from the already over-laboured servants. It was not easy to rise from weary exhaustion at the end of the day and summon up the servile obedience needed to endure such a pointless task - And it was pointless. Even as the caravans set out in the morning with shining bright painted walls, by noon they were once more caked in dirt and dust. By the second week, Barzan was forced to intercede and persuade the Johdi to call off the exercise. The servants were close to mutiny and the entire caravan was in uproar. Eventually, the rotund lady agreed, sighing at the utter laxness the rigours of travelling had brought her court.

Zohon was silent as he watched the entire proceedings. He was silent as he saw the Johanna, Lord of Million Souls, remonstrate ineffectually with his obese spouse. He was silent as he saw a small group of ill-organised slaves and servants thwart the desires of the most powerful woman in the world. The Hammer of Gang was silent throughout it all, a slight curl to his lip.

But he watched. He listened. And he brooded.

All his life he had been taught several simple ideas. To respect his sovereign. To gain power. To fight. And most important of all, that the Johanna was king. Emperor. Ruler and lord of a million souls, including Zohon's own. He had a divine right gained from Fates who ruled Spong and Haroo. He _was_ power.

But now, watching the obese old man waddle around after his hen of a wife, Zohon felt the beginnings of _something_ grip his stomach. He began to see defects in the infallible ruler. Faults. Weaknesses. Especially weaknesses. The recent marriage with the Mastery had shown how anxious, how vulnerable the Johanna was. To preserve some ridiculous alliance, he had sacrificed his only daughter and the pride of Gang. Only a weak man gave into his enemy's demands. Only a weak man would compromise with the scum and lowborn puppies of the Mastery.

There was only one logical answer. The Johanna was no longer the leader Zohon had sworn loyalty to nearly fifteen years ago. He was no longer a strong leader. He was no longer fit to be king.

A man, who was not fit to be king, should not rule.

The logic of it all hit him like a blinding star.

Gang, his country, needed… no. Gang _demanded_ a ruler that would make it great once more. For what had felt like months (sometimes, what had felt like years), he had stood by, watching as the border cities and territories of his home were nibbled away, swallowed up into the strongholds of a few impudent warlords, in the melting pot of the Mastery. He had watched, helpless as the Johanna had placated, compromised, gave in, his fingers itching with impatience to slide the sharp silver blade of his hammer across the impertinent dirty necks of the arrogant ambassadors and embassies. He had stood behind the Johanna's chair as the settlement for the farcical marriage of Sisi – _his_ Sisi – to the pup of the Mastery was beaten out.

He knew what that treaty meant, even if the fool advisors at court and cowards like Barzan wandered in happy delusion. It meant surrender. It meant destroying the great, glorious empire of Gang. The Johanna had signed over his kingdom as surely as a duped farmer at a cattle fair.

And Sisi… beautiful, elegant, delicate Sisi…

Longingly, the Commander of the Johjan Guards watched as the caravan previously belonging to his beloved, his white dove, trundled past, the gilded roof shining in the sun. His heart constricted with something he interpreted as grief at the thought of the Johdila trapped in the ridiculous marriage with a mere boy. Did he even know how to take a woman to his bed? Zohon doubted it.

If – No. Zohon corrected himself. _When_ he became the Zohonna of Gang, he would get her back. He would march through the ridiculously pretty streets of the Mastery and snatch her from the shrinking coward _Ortiz_ like a ripe flower from inferior earth. Then, with her at his side and his claim to the throne assured, he would rule and conquer, sweeping through the rest of the Continent. From seashore to seashore, east to west, the standard of Gang and the Silver Hammer of the Zohonna would fly in every village, every town, every minuscule hamlet. He would be invincible, unconquerable – immortal…

"Sir?"

The Captain swerved in surprise as his superior jerked around suddenly, like a wild animal. His horse reared and plunged, the hard jerking of his reins sending bolts of pain through the tender skin of its mouth. Hurriedly, the Southlander soothed the fretful beast, stroking along the arching bay neck. Once the animal was calm once more, he dug his spurs into the well-sprung ribs and urged it up closer to the Commander, albeit a little more cautiously this time. "Commander?"

"The report I ordered, Captain?"

The darker skinned man bowed as best he could in a high-pomelled saddle. "All of the men are present and accounted for, sir."

"None lost in the brothels of the Mastery?"

"No, sir." Not that there were that many houses of ill repute to get lost in, the Captain reflected dispassionately. Even in the slave quarters – naturally enough thought to be the poorest and therefore the seediest areas of any city – the absence of any significant red-light district was noticeable. Some of the wilder members of the Johjan guards had been disgusted at this and had wondered aloud what type of men populated this city, derision echoing through their voices. Privately, the Captain believed that their leader agreed with these sentiments. Even he, himself, was brought to wonder at the high moral atmosphere that had engulfed the entire city.

The startlingly intense brown eyes swung around onto the subordinate. Automatically, the Captain straightened in his saddle.

"Reizo, isn't it?"

"Ay – Yes, sir." He caught at the slang of his homeland quickly and swallowed it down. The Commander preferred refined City-speak from his officers and his punishments for perceived boorishness were legendary in the officer's mess.

"From the Southern Mountains?"

"Yes, sir." As if he could be from anywhere else, Reizo thought scornfully, resisting the urge to run his hand self-consciously along the traditional beaded hair-tail of his people that lay along the base of his skull. With his darker, tanned skin and short, whip thin body, his appearance was that of a traditional male of his tribe. Wiry muscles bunched beneath the heavy wool of his uniform, reminding him of days and months in his childhood spent scrambling up and down the dry red-rock ridges and gorges near his oasis home. He tightened his lips, wondering why the Commander was asking his questions that anyone could have learned by even glancing at his military file.

"A loyal people."

"We like to think so, sir." Reizo lied smoothly, ignoring the memory of his brother's fury on hearing he had joined the cadet academy of 'that fucking tyrant, the Johanna'. Ignoring too, the persistent memory of the seditious mutterings of his father and uncles around the campfires of his home.

Zohon leaned in closer, gently forcing his arrogant stallion to mince up alongside the rougher gelding of his Captain. A small, thin smile curved his lips up. The Captain eyed it like it was a mousetrap, liable to snap down and attack him at any moment. "And _you_, Captain Reizo?"

Stoically, the mountain-man stared straight ahead. "I like to think so, sir."

"I see." Silkily, the soft vowels and emphasised consonants of the Commander's Obagang accent faded out. Reizo prepared to move away, gathering up the leather strands in his hands. He turned back to the Commander, one hand already stiffening into a salute when the silky voice shot out once more.

"And my men, Reizo."

Inwardly bristling at the Commander's presumption at using his personal name without asking, Reizo bowed once more. "Sir?"

"How loyal do you think my men are?"

Black eyes flicked up to the royal carriage, lurching from pothole to pothole up ahead of them. The shorter man chose his words cautiously. "The men would give their lives for the Johanna, sir."

The Commander followed his subordinate's gaze. Almost unnoticeably, his eyes narrowed. "Captain Reizo," He asked gently, "How loyal do you think my men are… to _me_."

The Southern man swallowed deeply. His fingers began to prickle nervously, the strange, nettle-sting sensation soon spreading around to his back, making to hairs on his neck stand on end. It was the same sixth sense that attacked all Southern Tribesmen when in danger, saving lives on more than one occasion. This was no casual question on Zohon's part. This was the beginning of a coup.

Reizo gazed straight ahead for a moment. Then the shaved head of the mountain-man swung around, meeting Zohon's gaze directly. "Beyond death, sir."

Zohon smiled slightly and nodded. "I thought as much." He murmured, confident self satisfaction softening the silky whisper into a snake's hiss. Impatiently, he spurred his horse on, cantering up to the head of the caravan. The midday sun glared in his face and he gloried in it, in the power he would soon acquire.

It was a time for kings.


End file.
